


Brand and Borgakh Take On Skyrim (And Skyrim Isn't Ready)

by Luck_Kazajian



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Argonians, Armor, Borgakh is an Orc so she is serious, Bretons, Civil War, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Ethical Questions, F/M, Healing Potions, Humans, Imperials, Incessant Questions, Jarls, Jokes, Khajiit - Freeform, Love, Marriage, Maybe lots of wine, NORDS - Freeform, Orcs, Probably More Tags To Come With Future Chapters, Questions, Redguards, Sarcastic Dragonborn, Stormcloaks, The Dragonborn has so much gold he doesn't know what to do with it, Typical Skyrim Adventures, Why are Nords so Stubborn???, Why is the Dragonborn Not a Nord, Wood Elves, husband/wife, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luck_Kazajian/pseuds/Luck_Kazajian
Summary: When a carefree wood-elf Dragonborn fights a Dragon outside an Orcish stronghold and gets injured, he's surprised to be taken in and healed by the Orcs. Usually a secretive bunch, the Dragonborn soon finds that they are a lot friendlier than they seem. But when the chief's daughter tells the Dragonborn she'd like to travel the world and all that's needed is a dowry to set her free...well, the Dragonborn has deep pockets and a penchant for adventure. Thus begins the saga of a Dragonborn and his Orc, a whirlwind pair that Skyrim wasn't expecting.
Relationships: Borgakh the Steel Heart/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Comments: 21
Kudos: 32





	1. This is Only the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Friends! So, I’ve always been a fan of Skyrim and have played countless hours of it with multiple characters, but this time I thought maybe I’d finally post some stuff. ;)  
> Brand is one of my actual characters. I made him specifically to marry Borgakh because ever since I found her with my first Dragonborn (who was, unfortunately, already married at the time), I wanted to have one of my characters travel with and marry her. Having him be a wood-elf just made it amusing because of their size difference. That and also the fact that I decided from the get go that Brand was going to be my snarky Dragonborn (which is pretty opposite of most of the Orcs’ personalities.) And so, as a result, I’ve decided to write out their adventures.  
> Except for the first few chapters which kind of establish Brand and Borgakh’s relationship, this story is going to be mostly episodic in nature. Some chapters are based off of things that happened to me while playing Skyrim and you’ll probably recognize some of the lines of dialogue. Other chapters will just be me spitballing with my two lovebirds ;) I don't really have a specific plan or update schedule for this story. It's just going to happen as it happens.  
> Hope you enjoy!

**Borgakh**

It’s strange that we let him in at all. But then again, he did kill a dragon right outside the gates of Mor Kazghur and he was injured. The least we can do is help. They bring him into the chief’s house, which is where I first see him. He’s dwarfed between my mother and Shuftharz, who each have an arm under his. He’s so covered in blood and gore, that at first, I’m not even sure he’s alive, but then I see the flash of his eyes and teeth in his bloody face - bright and fierce.

I watch from the wings, as expected of the chief’s daughter, until summoned. The chief handles matters of foreign policy and outsiders, not his wives, and certainly not his children. It is the way of things in the stronghold.

At first, I think the newcomer is in trouble, the way my mother and Shuftharz drag him in, but then I realize he can’t stand on his own. What I don't understand is why they brought him into the longhouse of all places? He isn’t an orc. If his pointy ears and pale flesh aren’t enough to prove that, his short stature certainly is. The only orcish thing about him is the rust-red mohawk running down the middle of his scalp. He’s a wood-elf, barely larger than a half-grown orsimer. In fact, Shuftharz stoops as she walks beside him, so that she won’t lift the poor elf off his feet entirely. 

They lay him on the ground in front of my father. The elf tries to prop himself up on one elbow, then falls back with a grimace.

“Who is this?” my father asks, looking down at the elf like he might look at his next meal. 

“I believe he is the one the Nords call Dragonborn,” Mother answers. 

From the floor, the elf lifts a hand in greeting. 

“You? The Dragonborn?” Father tilts his head. I know what he’s thinking. This bloody elf hardly looks like a Nord hero. 

The elf coughs, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth, but he nods. 

“You do not look like much,” Father says.

To my surprise, the elf laughs. “I look like...even less when I’m not covered in blood and dragon guts.” 

From where I stand at the bedroom door, I raise an eyebrow. No one has ever been that flippant with my father.

My father’s brows draw down into a frown, but then he throws back his head and laughs too. “I hear you slayed a dragon outside my gates.” 

The elf nods again. 

“That’s very valiant of you, hero.” 

The elf shrugs. “Lucky might be...a better word for it.” Then he clasps a hand to his side and groans, clenching his teeth. My father looks at his gathered entourage, all business again. 

“Bargak, summon Sharamph. Shuftharz, get this man to a bed. Borgakh!” 

“Yes, Father?” I step into the main room. 

“Water, bandages, and whatever else Sharamph needs.” 

I follow Mother out of the longhouse to find the wise-woman and see what I can do to help. 

* * *

“You’re new.” 

I turn to see the elf watching me from his bed with a lop-sided smile. 

“New?” I set the tray of food I’m carrying on the table beside his bed. Orc longhouses aren’t really built for privacy. After all, clan is family, so my mother hung a few skins around one of the corner beds to give our guest a little peace and quiet. He has a bed and table and a small wash basin in the little space.

“Sure. You look less grumpy than Bargak, anyway, or Sharamph.” 

I smirk. For an elf, his orcish pronunciation is pretty good. He even gets the guttural grunt in on his g’s. “Bargak is my mother, you know.” 

The elf tilts his head, studying me, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed by his earlier comment. Instead he smiles. “I can see the family resemblance.” He holds his fingers up by his mouth, as if imitating tusks. 

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this irreverent?” 

“Only when I’m so full of healing potions and orcish rotgut that I can’t think straight.” He flashes another smile. I hold back a smile of my own. Even when he’s being flippant, it’s hard to be angry around the elf. Now that he’s had a day’s rest and isn’t covered in blood and dragon guts, he’s charming. For a bosmer, that is. 

“Rotgut?” I ask as I cut up the mammoth steak I prepared.

“Well, I don’t know the proper name for that swill your healer pours down my throat. Seems to be helping, but it tastes terrible.” 

I laugh. “You’re just not used to our ways, elf. We orcs live closer to the land than most.”

“Closer than the elves?” He doesn’t sound offended, just curious. 

I don’t know how to answer that. I realize I don’t actually know very much about how elves live. After all, I’ve never left the stronghold, and won’t until I come of age and marry the chief of another clan. 

Instead, I hand the elf his tray of food, glad that he’s well enough to feed himself and I don’t have to sit by him and spoon-feed him. He sits up a little straighter and the blankets fall, revealing a well-muscled torso. Bandages cover his stomach and one shoulder and there are scars across his chest and back. Some look like claw-marks, others look as if they came from a blade. He picks at the food with his fingers, taking some of the bread and vegetables from the tray, but mostly leaving the meat untouched. 

“You do not eat meat?” It comes out sounding like an accusation. I put extra attention into preparing his steak and I think it turned out well.

He looks up at me with an expression of surprise. “I do,” he says. That grin is back again. “Sometimes.” 

I scowl and cross my arms. 

“Am I annoying you?” He looks concerned this time.

“No. Of course not.” My tone is more irritated than I'd like. An orc should not let an elf get under her skin. I don’t know why I’m so flustered. The elf is tiny. I could crush him like a twig, especially with his injuries. He is no threat. 

“You don’t have to watch me eat, you know, if you’ve got other things to do. I won’t choke,” he says. 

I don’t have a response to that. Because he’s offering me an out and I know it. But he’s right. I was only sent to deliver his meal. I don’t have to stand around and watch him eat it. All I have to do is come back for the dishes when he’s done. I turn abruptly and walk out of the room so I don’t have to look back at those strangely amber eyes. 

I make up an excuse and ask Sharamph to collect his tray when she goes to give him his medicine later in the evening. 

But I can’t get his crooked grin and flashing eyes out of my head. 

I realize as I drop into bed that night that I do not know the elf’s name. 

Why should I care? 

Who is he to me? 


	2. "Why Not Come With Me?"

**Brand**

I don’t know if it’s a combination of the orcish potions and my Dragonborn blood or maybe sheer dumb luck, but I’m on my feet three days after encountering the dragon at the gates of Mor Kazghur. I’m still bruised and stiff (I swear that tail came out of nowhere), but I consider myself cleared for duty. And so, apparently, does Sharamph because she doesn’t say anything to me when she sees me walking around the stronghold. 

The staunch friendliness of the orcs surprises me. In my experience, orsimer are solitary creatures and it’s rare to meet one outside of a stronghold. Those outside usually speak little of their time inside. From what I’ve heard, it’s illegal to let anyone who isn’t an orc into a stronghold. Which is why I don’t understand why they let me in, but I’m glad they did. 

If I’m honest, it’s a little intimidating. All the orcs are at least head and shoulders taller than me and most of them look like they could crush me in a glance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fighter, but not like an orc is a fighter. They’re a different league. 

Then I remind myself that I fight dragons for a living and that orcs shouldn’t be a threat. If they cause problems, I’ll just shout them all to Oblivion. Or at least, that’s what I’ll tell them. They don’t have to know that I don’t know enough shouts for that. Yet. 

I’m sitting outside repairing the damage to my leather armor. Or what was left of it anyway. The blacksmith, Shuftharz, built me a new leather cuirass while I was recovering and I’m impressed. It’s sleek and black and fits me well, supple yet strong. I was able to salvage my gauntlets, boots, and greaves. With a little spitshine they look almost new. In a day or two I’ll be able to head out again. 

“You trust that to protect you, elf?” A shadow falls over me and I look up to see the scowling face of the chief’s daughter. Well, I don’t actually know if she’s scowling or not. Because of their tusks, Orcs kind of look like they’re always scowling. 

“Do you trust that to protect you, orc?” I point at the steel plate she’s wearing. 

“My name is Borgakh,” she says, but it doesn’t sound as malicious as I was expecting. 

“Brand.” I offer her my hand. 

There’s a spark of challenge in her eye as she refuses to take it. Instead she raps her steel chest plate proudly. “This is armor. I would count on it against even a giant. That,” she points at my leather cuirass and shrugs. 

“Shuftharz made this, you know. Are you suggesting she makes inferior armor?” I wiggle my eyebrows as if we’re both in on a great inside joke. 

The orc just stares at me for a moment. “Of course not.” 

I sigh. 

She’s nonplussed. These orcs take everything too seriously.

I think she’ll walk away, like she’s done before, but instead she takes a seat on the log bench beside me. “Are you leaving us?” she asks. 

“In a day or two. Why?” 

She looks away and I almost swear I see a blush under the two streaks of red facepaint leading from her eyes down to her neck. 

“Must be nice, traveling freely across Skyrim.” The words sound bitter. 

“You can’t?” I ask. I get the feeling it’s a touchy subject, but I’ve never been one to shy away from that sort of stuff. 

“No. That is not my lot in life. As the chief’s daughter I am expected to stay with my clan until my marriage to another chief is arranged. Then my clan will be paid dowry and I’ll establish trade relations with the other clan.” 

“And bear children, I suppose?” 

She looks at me sharply. 

I shrug. 

“That is a given,” she says. 

“But is that what you want?” I ask. 

She takes a while to answer. “Clan life isn’t about what I want. It’s about what is good for my clan. I am proud to serve them.” 

“But?” I prompt. I can hear the unspoken words before she says them.

She sighs. “But I can’t help but feel chained,” she admits. “It’s...difficult knowing I’ll never get to see the world before I die.” 

I go back to cleaning my gauntlet. “Why not come with me, then?” I suggest. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. “I do a lot of traveling.”

She sits up straighter at my suggestion. There’s a spark of interest in her eye. But then she shakes her head. “I can’t. That would bring shame on my father and mother and the memory of my foremothers. I cannot leave them without my dowry and the trade I’d bring.” 

“Got any sisters?” I ask. 

She glares at me. 

I look back down at my gauntlet. It was worth a shot. 

And yet, she stays beside me, watching me. 

“How much is your dowry?” I ask. 

This time, the silence stretches so long between us, I figure she’s tired of me and isn’t going to answer. She stands up. But before she walks away, she says, “1,000 septims.” 

I smile.

* * *

Today’s the day I leave Mor Kazghur. That, or get pummeled into Oblivion by an orc chieftain and his angry wife. Or wives. I’m not really sure how many of the women in the stronghold are married to the chief. 

And I might be bold, but I’m not that cheeky. 

A thousand septims, she said. 

I had that. 

I’m pretty sure she didn’t think I did. And I’m pretty sure, even if she thought I did, that she didn’t think I’d pay it. But looting ancient Nordic tombs and dragon nests is pretty profitable. Besides, I already have a house. What else am I gonna do with all this gold? 

The chief looks down at me from his chair at the center of the longhouse, surrounded by most of his tribe. His wife, Bargak, stands beside him. Borgakh is a little behind them. If I didn’t know this was a farewell party, I’d think I was about to be put on trial. The orcs do everything with this solemn ferocity that makes it hard to tell if they want to honor you or lop your head off. But since I haven’t wronged any orcs in my lifetime (yet), I figure I’m mostly safe. 

“It’s been an honor, chief.” I bow slightly at the waist. I’m still a little stiff and my bandages prevent a proper courtly bow, but the orcs don’t seem to mind. “Thank you, all of you, for your care and friendship. And for not leaving me to die outside your gate.” I smile. A few of the orcs laugh. 

The chief nods at me. “We thank you for killing the dragon at our gate, little elf.” 

I scrunch up my nose at the word “little.” The Nords toss it at me as an insult all the time, but I think the chief is just being literal. 

The chief continues. “In honor of your actions, we name you blood-kin.” He steps forward with a necklace in one hand -- a leather cord with what looks suspiciously like a blood-stained orc tusk dangling from it. I haven't noticed any missing tusks in the clan, so I wonder who donated this one. “Show this to any stronghold in Skyrim and they will know you as blood-kin and assist you.” The chief steps up and drops the cord over my head. I have to admit, it looks fierce against my new black armor. 

“Thank you.” I bow again. 

The chief returns the bow. Then he holds out his hand. I’m not exactly sure what he wants, but I hold out mine too. He grabs it and, faster than I can blink, runs a knife across my palm. I barely bite back a yelp as he cuts his own palm and then clasps my hand in a bone-crushing grip. Our blood mingles and drips onto the floor. I grip his hand back as hard as I can. 

He looks sort of impressed. 

Then he holds our hands up. I’m stretched out on tiptoe, but the chief hardly has his arm extended. 

“Blood-kin!” he roars. 

The orcs in the room cheer and howl and beat blades on shields or armor. “Blood-kin!” they shout over and over until I start to fear for my hearing. 

Then the chants subside and the chief releases my hand. I fall back on my heels. The chief hands me a strip of cloth to bind my hand. His wife steps forward to tend to his. 

“And now, before you leave, is there a favor you would ask of me, elf?” 

“Uh, actually, yes. There is one thing.” I tie off the cloth around my hand then reach into my pocket and pull out a coin purse. I feel all the eyes in the room on me. Well, here goes nothing. “I’d like to pay Borgakh’s dowry.” 

The entire room freezes like a Windhelm night. 

The chief looks equal parts angry and incredulous. 

Bargak looks downright furious. 

Borgakh looks shocked. 

I have no idea what’s on my face, but there are a thousand things running through my mind, faster than even I can keep up with. All in all, I think it results in me standing there with my mouth half-open like an idiot. 

The chief, hands fisted at his sides, glares down at me. “You wish to marry my daughter?” 

“Uh, no.” I smack an open palm into my forehead because that sounds terrible. “N-not that your daughter isn’t beautiful, or anything,” I stammer. “Chief.” 

“Do you insult me?” the chief asks. 

“Of course not!” Anger heats my chest and a little of my composure returns. “I offer your daughter’s dowry because she expressed her wish to me to travel Skyrim and learn about other cultures before she finds herself --”  _ don’t say stuck _ “-- tied to a stronghold forever. But she didn’t want to cheat you out of her dowry. So, I offer you her dowry, in exchange for her freedom.” 

I glance at Borgakh. Something like a smile quirks the corner of her lips, even though her arms are crossed. 

“If that’s what she wants,” I add. 

The chief is silent for a long time. 

I hear murmurs around the room. In the history of all the strongholds, an elf has probably never offered to pay an orc’s dowry before. I don’t even know if you can pay a dowry without marrying the girl you’re paying for, but I guess it’s worth a shot. I stand there, hand out, gold purse sitting on my bandaged palm. And if I have to marry Borgakh to get her out...well, what the hell. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? 

Finally, the chief turns to his daughter. 

“Does the elf speak the truth, daughter?” he asks. 

This time, Borgakh really does blush, but she doesn’t look away. “Yes, Father.” Her voice is strong and clear. “He does.” 

I notice Bargak isn’t scowling anymore. She looks almost...proud. 

The chief turns to his wife and they share something unspoken. Then he turns back to me. 

“How much do you offer, elf?” he asks.

“A thousand septims.” 

I think the chief’s eyes widen for a split second before he nods. “Very well. Borgakh, I hereby declare your dowry paid. You are free to go.” 

A collective breath seems to be let out around the longhouse and then after a moment, Shuftharz cheers and soon the whole clan joins in. 

I take the opportunity to convince my knees to stop shaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always thought that there was a sad lack of any sort of ceremony or signal of becoming blood-kin to the orcs in the game, so I decided to add a little ceremony of my own and a token ;) 


	3. "His Name is Brand!"

**Borgakh**

“Why did you do it, elf?” 

In front of me, he sighs. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s Brand.” He turns around and starts walking backward down the road so he can face me. “Do you orcs have something against first names? What do you do, run around the stronghold calling each other orc all day?” 

“No.” I raise an eyebrow. “Why would we do that?” 

He throws his hands up. “Exactly! Why would you?” 

“We don’t.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. It’s something he’s done a lot since we left the stronghold two days ago. “So then why am I just ‘elf’ all the time?” 

“Because that’s what you are.” 

He spins abruptly and starts marching faster, muttering under his breath. I don’t catch all of what he says, but I do hear the word ‘obtuse.’ 

“You did not answer my question,” I remind him. I keep my smile carefully hidden.

“What was the question again?” He sounds resigned.

“Why did you do it? Why did you pay my dowry?” 

He’s quiet for a while. Something that, even in my few short days of knowing him, I have come to realize is unusual for him. 

“I didn’t think it was fair, you know, to leave you there,” he finally says. 

“Fair?” 

“Yeah. I mean, you wanted to travel. I had the means to let you and nothing better to do with all that gold.” He shrugs. “The least I could do was get you out.” 

“The least you could do?” I am needling him. Maybe he knows it. 

“You know what I mean.” He sighs again. 

“Are you rich?” I ask. If 1,000 septims is the least he could do, maybe I should have asked for a higher dowry. I already raised the price just to see if he’d pay it and my father played along. As did the elf, to my surprise. Perhaps I will tell him one day. 

“Compared to some, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really keep track of it. That’s more Lydia’s job.” 

“Lydia?” I ask. I’m surprised when my voice comes out a little gruffer than I intend. But if he notices, he doesn’t react.

“My housecarl. In Whiterun.” 

“Housecarl?” 

“Yeah. It’s a Nordic term. It means…” he rolls a hand in the air beside him as if searching for the right word. “She’s kind of like a steward and a bodyguard.” 

“The Dragonborn needs a bodyguard?” 

He shrugs. “Sometimes. But mostly she just guards my stuff.” 

“Are you married?” I ask. 

He stops and looks at me with a strange expression on his face then slowly holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers. There aren’t any rings on any of them.

“I said housecarl, not wife.” He smirks. “Lydia takes care of the house while I’m away, manages my affairs in town, and keeps opportunistic looters from having a heyday in my house. You know, all that important stuff the Dragonborn is supposed to be doing in between saving the world.” 

“Is that how you came to our stronghold, elf? Saving the world?” 

“Brand,” he says reflexively. “I suppose so. I was officially in the area to meet Jarl Elisif the Fair. I was on my way back to Whiterun when I came across that dragon I fought outside your stronghold. Turns out, he was an elder dragon and I may,” he coughs, “have bitten off more than I could chew.” 

“Well,” I say. “I’m glad you did.” 

He laughs. “At least one of us is.”

* * *

Whiterun is both bigger and smaller than I expect. The Jarl’s house is far larger than I think any man would need. The elf says I should see the Blue Palace if I think Dragonsreach is big. And then he tells me that it’s not just a house. Dragonsreach also serves as a base of operations for the Jarl and his advisors, plus a home for other members of the court. 

“It’s sort of like your stronghold,” he says as we look up at the towering roof of Dragonsreach. “The Jarl lives there with his family, all his advisors and staff, and the servants.” 

“Servants?” 

“Well, sure. Somebody’s got to clean Dragonsreach. Or did you think he did it himself?” There’s a sparkle in his eye that I know means laughter, even if he isn’t making a sound. 

“Is Lydia your servant?” I ask. 

“No!” 

“But she is bound to you, is she not?” 

“Well, yes, I suppose. But it’s more of an honor thing. She gets paid for her work and gets to share all of my resources and stuff. She’s still able to live her life as she pleases. Just...in my house.” He falters a little on that last bit, as if he’s not entirely confident about it. But then again, maybe he is not. After all, he is a Bosmer living smack dab in the middle of Nordic tradition and legend. All of this was probably strange to him once too. And might still be. “But c’mon. Let me show you around,” he says. 

He leads me up to a modest house beside the blacksmith’s shop. It is much smaller than what I imagine the Dragonborn should live in. I say so. He just shrugs and gives me a mysterious smile as he opens the door. 

Inside, the house is charming. There’s a fire pit in the center of the room and a long table in the back for eating or working. It is covered in a conglomeration of plates, papers, weapons, and half-eaten food. There are cabinets and bookshelves on just about every available part of the wall and they are all full of jars, trinkets, books, journals, and strange objects I have no name for. There are glittering sapphires and rubies sitting in a pile on one shelf and a dragon’s claw that looks like it might be made of pure gold sitting on another. A staircase leads up to what I assume are the sleeping quarters. 

“Lydia! I’m home!” he shouts. 

A woman appears at the top of the stairs a moment later. She’s a practical dark-haired Nord wearing (I’m pleased to note) a sturdy set of steel armor. 

“It’s good to see you again, my Thane.” 

I almost expect the sigh he gives her in return. 

“It’s Brand. Brand, Lydia.” 

“Of course,” she says. “And who is this?” 

I don’t even give the elf a chance to introduce me. “I am Borgakh the Steel-Heart.” I step forward. 

“Well met, Borgakh,” Lydia says. “Will you be visiting with us long?” 

“She’ll be staying for a while,” the elf clarifies. “I figure she can stay in the room under the stairs. We’ll have to acquire a bed.” 

“Consider it done, my Thane. I will speak to Adrienne and Belethor and see what they can come up with.” 

“Excellent. While you’re at it, would you get us something nice from Anoriath’s stall for dinner? We’ve got a new friend, I figure that merits us a little feast.” 

“Certainly.” Lydia smiles. “Want me to take one of those gems for trade?” She points to the pile of sapphires and rubies. I can see what the elf meant when he said he might be considered rich.

“Sure. Why not?” he shrugs. “I’ve got a few more from the last tomb I was in anyway.” 

Lydia rolls her eyes, but she grabs a couple of gems off the shelf as she passes and heads out the door. The easy familiarity between the two of them is something that I can relate to. It is the friendly banter of clanmates. These two are good friends, even though Lydia does seem to owe him some deference. 

“Tomb?” I ask, curious at his last remark.

“Oh, yeah.” He empties a pouch from his belt, dumping a couple more gemstones - a ruby and an emerald this time - onto the shelf. “You’d be surprised how many Nords get buried with an absolute mountain of treasure.” 

“And you take it from them?” 

He shrugs. “They can’t use it. And it’s not like anyone is taking inventory in the tombs.”

While I am no Nord, and our orcish burial practices are different, I don’t know how I feel about blindly robbing the dead. But I will not be hasty. It is no business of mine where the Dragonborn gets his septims. 

He leads me under the staircase to a small room with an alchemy stand in one corner. A shelf overhead holds a trunk and several herbs hanging underneath it to dry. 

“If you don’t mind the herbs, you can stay here. Lydia will get you a bed. I think I’ve got an extra chest upstairs I can bring down for you to store your stuff in. Until you decide what you’d like to do, of course.” 

“This will be fine,” I say. And it will. I don’t need a lot of space. After all, I’m used to sharing everything I have with the clan. 

“Great.” He smiles. “You can leave your stuff here for now. We’ll get you settled in later tonight. I’m going to drop off this eternally heavy backpack” he gestures to the pack on his own back, “and then I’ll take you around the city.” He winks and goes upstairs. 

I leave behind my pack, but I keep my armor and weapons. An orc never leaves home without them. Since I am far from home, I prefer to keep my arms and armor close. The elf returns a few minutes later in civilian garb - a green tunic and vest over tan pants and a pair of soft leather boots. He’s only armed with a short dagger that is more decorative than useful if the gilded hilt is any indication. He looks even smaller without his armor, but I can see the muscle beneath his shirt as he moves. He might not be the size of an orc, but there is no doubt that he is a warrior.

He catches me staring. I don’t look away. I have never understood the human reaction of quickly looking away and pretending you weren’t staring. If I am staring at something, I have good reason. The elf ends up looking away first. 

“Shall we?” He gestures at the door. 

I grunt. He takes that as a yes and pulls me outside. 

People stare at us as we walk up Whiterun’s main street. The elf greets almost all of them, even the ones who scowl at him, like a fellow he calls Nazeem. Overall, it seems he’s well-liked in Whiterun though. The city is so different from our stronghold. There are all sorts of people here - elves, Redguards, Nords, and Bretons. I even glimpsed a Khajitti trading caravan on the way in. People here are lively. There’s shouting and bargaining. Kids run through the streets playing a game of tag. They even try to get the Dragonborn to join in, but he politely declines (with the promise that he’ll make it up to them later.) The market is a busy place, even at the close of the day. The elf stops at a well in the center of the market and gestures grandly around himself. 

“Well? What do you think?” he asks, that dazzling grin on his face again. 

Before I can answer, a voice interrupts, “I think you should stop bringing foreigners into the city.”

The elf sighs and turns to face a blond Nord in Imperial armor who walked up behind us. “No one asked your opinion, Idolaf.” 

“In my own city? No one has to.” Idolaf leers. “Mongrel.” 

I feel my blood boil. 

“That’s Dragonborn to you, Nord,” the elf says. He keeps his expression neutral, but his tone is icy.

“So what did you bring back this time? An Orc? What is she, your new bodyguard? Didn’t think Lydia was enough?” Idolaf jeers, getting right down in the elf’s face. “Thought you had to replace your Nord housecarl with one of their kind? Boorish, dirty fighters, if you ask me.” 

“Lydia’s fine. Borgakh isn’t replacing her. She’s just traveling with me.” 

Idolaf looks over at me. “Can’t even have the decency to have a pronounceable name.” He shakes his head. “So, what do you do?” he snarls. “Carry the mongrel’s sword or something?” 

“His name is Brand,” I growl. 

Idolaf stands up, frowning slightly, as if he didn’t hear me. “Come again?”

Even Brand looks surprised. 

“His name. Is. Brand. Not mongrel.” 

Idolaf is silent for a long moment, then he laughs. 

“So she’s your defender, then, eh, mongrel?” 

I am on him so fast, he doesn’t even have a chance to react. I grab him up by the collar and hoist him over the well, so that he is bent backward over the metal grating, an angry orc leaning over him, my sword inches from his nose. He gulps. This close I can see sweat bead on his brow. 

“Look here, Nord, I could care less what you call me. But you’ll show some respect to my friend. You can address him as Dragonborn or Brand. I hear you call him anything else, I’ll break your bones into so many pieces that even a Dwemer tinkerer couldn’t put you back together. You understand?” 

I see the flash of defiance in Idolaf’s eyes. I shake him and bend him further over the well. I hear something crack. 

“Understand?” I ask again. 

Idolaf has a funny expression on his face, something between a smile and a grimace. “Y-yes. Of course. I meant no disrespect.” 

“The hell you didn’t.” 

“Alright, Borgakh, I think you’ve scared the little milk-drinker enough,” Brand says from behind me. 

I scowl, but I yank Idolaf up and shove him back. He stumbles a few steps before steadying himself against the well. I sheath my sword as curious eyes stare at us from all sides of the market. 

I growl. 

Idolaf backs off quickly, but not before throwing one last threat over his shoulder. “Don’t think this is the end, Dragonborn!” 

“Come back anytime, Idolaf!” Brand shouts and spreads his arms in a universal symbol of challenge. Idolaf disappears up the stairs to the Inn. 

I hear laughter behind us and turn to see another blond Nord in shoddy iron armor trying unsuccessfully to stifle his guffawing. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to give him his comeuppance?”

“Too long?” Brand guesses. 

The Nord nods. “I like your new friend, Brand.” 

“Me, too, Jon,” Brand says, looking over at me with a sly grin. “After all, she finally learned my name.” 

I cross my arms and stare down at him, but my usual intimidation tactics don’t bother Brand in the slightest. “Don’t push your luck, or you’re back to being elf.” 

Brand laughs. “Yes, ma’am. Now, how about I take you to see the rest of Whiterun, and then we’ll find out what Lydia dragged in for supper, eh?” 


	4. The Dragonborn Inadvertently Becomes a Model

**Brand**

Solitude is a weird place. My first visit to the city featured the bloody beheading of a poor Roggvir, a gate-guard who opened the gate for the wrong guy. As soon as I stepped into Solitude, I got sucked into the crowd around the headsman’s block as they relieved the man of his head. The crowd had mixed reactions. Some of them mourned his death while others cheered for his grisly end. As Dragonborn, I kept my official opinion on Roggvir to myself -- the Eight only know the Nords are hot-blooded enough without me adding to the list of causes they rally to. 

My second visit to Solitude includes getting accosted by a high-elf tailor waving this hideous brown, quilted thing around and insulting my outfit. 

“If you’re going to the Blue Palace, you might want to rethink that outfit.” The high-elf, Taarie, if I remember right, gives me a look of disdain. 

“What’s wrong with his outfit?” Borgakh asks. She sounds bored. 

Taarie looks up as if noticing Borgakh for the first time. “Oh.” 

I don’t know if that means ‘oh, I didn’t see you there,’ or ‘oh, look what the skeever dragged in.’ I think it’s the latter, but I can’t help but grin at Tarrie’s expression. Borgakh really doesn’t care what other people think of her. In the short time she’s been with me, she’s been met with a lot of suspicion, but she never raises her hackles at the insults. 

When I asked her why not, she shrugged. “I don’t see the point in bandying words. If they want a fight, I’ll gladly bash their head in. But I won’t trade petty insults.” 

Taarie is lucky Borgakh thinks this way. 

Especially since I’ve seen Borgakh’s particular brand of head-smashing and let’s just say...it’s effective. 

“Yeah? What’s wrong with it?” I bring Taarie’s attention back to me. “I’ll have you know this cuirass was crafted by one of the finest Orc blacksmiths in Skyrim. Are you saying you don’t like it?” 

She cocks her head for a minute. “It looks fine, as far as armor goes, I suppose. But surely you aren’t planning to go to the Blue Palace in it?” 

I look down at my armor, then back at Borgakh, in her steel plate.

“Actually, I was, yes. Why?” I ask. I try to keep a straight face. 

“That’s,” Taarie gasps. “That’s unheard of!” 

“Is it?” I tilt my head. The last time I visited the Blue Palace I wore my leather armor and no one stopped me or told me that it was improper. And that was before I had my new black set, crafted by Shuftharz at Mor Kazghur. 

Taarie gasps again, as if I’ve just committed the cardinal sin of social faux-pas. Maybe I have. “Absolutely!” she affirms. “You can’t march up to the Blue Palace dressed like that. Especially since you’re the Dragonborn.” 

“How did you --” I start. 

“Nevermind that.” She waves away my question. “Come. We must get you properly attired. I have just the thing.” I sincerely hope it’s not the quilt under her arm. She grabs my hand and drags me toward her shop. I shoot Borgakh a helpless look, but she just follows us like there’s nothing unusual about any of this. It’s times like these that I wish she’d take her helm off. I swear she’s laughing under there and just uses the helm to hide it. 

Taarie drags me into a shop called Radiant Raiment -- right beside the headsman’s block. I wonder if she sells clothes to people before their beheading… _Can’t have you show up to your execution looking like that, now. Come, let me dress you in something more...acceptable._ ****

Taarie interrupts my little fantasy by shoving me into a small room with a mirror and a couple of wardrobes and chests. To my relief, she leaves the quilt-looking thing on the shop counter. She also makes Borgakh wait outside the room. Borgakh shrugs and sits in a nearby chair as Taarie closes the door on us.

“Now, undress,” Taarie instructs. 

I stare at her for a second with my mouth open. “Do what now?” 

“Take your clothes off. You can’t put my clothes on top of your armor, so undress.” 

“Do you bring all your customers into a little room and demand they strip for you?” I ask. 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m a tailor. Of course I ask my customers to strip. I can’t dress someone if I can’t get an accurate measure of their size.” 

“Are you sure it’s for --” 

“JUST STRIP!” she yells. 

I’m pretty sure I hear laughter from outside the door, but Borgakh must decide I’m not in danger, because she doesn’t interfere. 

“Alright, alright. I think it’s just because you want to see the Dragonborn naked.” I start undoing the straps on my leather cuirass.

Taarie sighs loudly. “No. I do not want to see you -- wait.” 

“What?” I pull my cuirass off and go to work on my gauntlets. 

“Please tell me you aren’t…” she pauses. 

“Aren’t what?” I ask mischievously. 

“Please tell me you have underwear on.” 

“Um, that’s a personal question, don’t you think?” I toss the gauntlets to the side.

“It will be more personal if you don’t have any,” she says dryly. 

She has a point. 

“Yes,” I say. I start undoing the straps on my greaves and boots.

“Yes to which one?” Taarie asks. 

“The underwear one." I kick my boots off and take off my shirt. No matter how professional she is, she still checks me out. Whether it’s because of my scars or whether she’s admiring my muscles, I’m not sure. Or maybe she’s measuring me with her eyes. Whatever it is, she’s very thorough. I hide a grin. 

I start to untie my pants. She reaches out a hand and stops me. 

“Seriously,” she says. “I need --” 

I push her hand away and finish undoing the tie. I drop my pants. Taarie squeezes her eyes shut with a little undignified squeak.

“You can look,” I say. “I’m not a complete savage.” 

Taarie slowly opens her eyes. 

I do, in fact, have underwear on. 

She gives a small sigh of relief. 

“Is this a regular point of contention between you and your customers?” 

She regains her composure. “You’d be surprised how many of your uncouth kind march in here with nothing on under their clothing.” 

“My kind?” I raise my eyebrows. “I might be the Dragonborn, but I’m more civilized than your average Nord, you know.” 

She looks confused. “But you aren’t --” 

“Exactly.” I wink. “Now, tell me what you’ve got me in the buff here for, or I’m going to go make my visit to the Blue Palace. Maybe like this.” 

She looks absolutely horrified. But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she pulls a tape measure out of her pocket and unrolls it. Without preamble, she begins measuring different parts of my body. She gets my height, and the length of my legs. She measures my waist and chest and the length of my arms. She even measures around my head. At the point at which I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything else she could measure, she rolls the tape back up and declares she’s done. 

“Wait here a moment,” she says. She goes to one of the wardrobes and opens it up. Inside there are rows of outfits hanging on wooden pegs. She rifles through a few of them, then pulls out a green tunic and coat with gold embroidery. She holds them up for a moment, then nods and hands them to me. “Put those on,” she instructs. 

I shrug and start pulling on the tunic. A moment later, she gives me a pair of dark pants. I put them on too. I’m actually impressed with the way everything fits. I don’t think I’ve ever had a set of clothes fit this well.

“It still needs something,” Taarie murmurs. She goes to a trunk in one corner and comes up with a belt. “Add that.” 

As I get the belt on, she pulls a bear-skin cape out of one of the wardrobes and throws it over my shoulders, fastening it off-center with a gold brooch. Then she spins me around to look in the mirror. 

“What do you think?” she asks with a smile. 

“Impressive,” I say. And it’s not entirely a lie. While I wouldn’t say it’s my color, I don’t look half-bad in the outfit. 

“It’s still missing something,” she says. 

“Uh, shoes?” 

“No, we’ll get to those in a minute.” She returns to the trunk and pulls out a layered gold necklace with several gemstones set into it. “Add this.” I put it on as she rummages in the trunk some more. She comes up with a pair of leather shoes and a gold circlet inset with emeralds. 

“The final touches.” She holds them out to me. 

I put on the shoes and the circlet. She positions me in front of the mirror again. She makes a few adjustments, tilting the cape, straightening my belt, settling the gold necklace against my chest. Finally, she steps back and admires me like I’m a painting at a museum. She smiles.

“There. Now you’re fit to go to the Blue Palace.” 

“Uh, thanks, I guess. But what’s the catch?” I ask as I admire my reflection in the mirror. I look like a Thane from the Jarl’s court. While I’m not worried about the cost of the outfit (I’ve got gold to spare back in Whiterun), I know a lot of shopkeeps will force you into something and then declare it sold. And I’m pretty sure that’s what Taarie is about to do. 

“There’s no catch, Dragonborn. The outfit is yours to keep. I just need you to mention my shop to Elisif when you go to the Blue Palace.” 

“To the Jarl?” 

“Exactly. I help you, you help me. I’ll even throw in a small reward if Elisif reacts favorably.” 

“How am I supposed to make her react favorably?”

“I don’t know.” Taarie shrugs. “You’re the Dragonborn. You’ll think of something. I’ll hold onto your armor until you get back. And like I said, there’ll be something extra in it for you if you get Elisif to come down to the shop.” 

“Alright then.” What was the worst that could happen? Elisif was a pretty easy-going Jarl. At least I wasn’t trying to convince Idgrod Ravencrone to buy the outfit or anything. “Uh, thanks, I guess.” 

“No need to thank me,” Taarie said as she opened the door and practically pushed me back into the shop. “I’m doing you a favor, Dragonborn. At least now you won’t get laughed out of the Blue Palace for showing up dressed like a vagabond.” 

“Hey! That’s part of my roguish charm,” I mock protest. 

“Of course it is. Now, off to the palace with you!” she insists. 

Borgakh stands up and tilts her head in that way she does when she’s amused. 

“What about Borgakh?” I ask. “What about her clothes?” 

Borgakh stiffens. 

Taarie waves a hand. “Bodyguards are expected to wear armor. She doesn’t need a new outfit.” 

I open my mouth to tell Taarie that Borgakh isn’t my bodyguard, but Borgakh grabs my arm and steers me toward the door instead. “Come on, Dragonborn,” she says. “It is time you keep your appointment at court.” There’s definitely a laugh in her voice. 

Once we’re outside, I ask, “What, you didn’t want to strip for Taarie too?” 

Borgakh chuckles. “No. And I also did not think it was worth getting into an argument with her about my status as your bodyguard.” 

“You’re really not a bodyguard, you know,” I say. 

“Oh, I know. But it’s probably easier if we let that prissy high elf think I am.” 

I sigh. “You’re probably right. Let’s go to the Blue Palace.”

* * *

Jarl Elisif’s court is one of the more entertaining courts in Skyrim. They aren’t as dunderheaded as the court in Riften and they aren’t as cold as the court in Markarth or Windhelm. Maybe it's because Elisif is still young. Or maybe it's because she's as in over her head as the rest of Skyrim, but in my few meetings with her, she has been warmer and friendlier than most of the Jarls. More human.

I also appreciate her steward’s wisdom and practical, straightforward manner. The court wizard always eyes me like she wants to rip my throat out and some of the Thanes are jackasses, but what can you do? I guess you can’t get everything you want in life. 

“Just don’t do anything...stupid,” Borgakh hisses behind me as we climb the stairs to Jarl Elisif’s court. 

“Stupid?” I ask. “Whatever do you mean?” 

I feel her glare between my shoulder blades. “You know exactly what I mean.” 

I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t break anything. This time,” I promise. 

“You’d better not.” Borgakh growls. She pauses for a second. "Wait. This time?" 

I act like I don't hear her. 

Under normal circumstances, she would wring an answer out of me, but just then we top the stairs and arrive at court. I feel Borgakh's glare through my bearskin cape. She'll bring this up later, I’m sure of it. But for now, I turn my attention to the court.

Falk and Elisif have their heads bent over a piece of paper on her throne, talking quietly to each other. The court wizard skulks nearby looking as cranky as ever. Bryling and Erikur are in some sort of heated discussion about swords on the side of the room while Bolgier watches them warily, hand on his own sword. I walk into the middle of the room and announce myself. 

“Hail, Brand, Dragonborn, Hero of Skyrim, Vanquisher of Dragons, etc., etc.”

Elisif looks up with a twinkle in her eye. Even Falk looks amused. 

“Hello, Brand,” Elisif says. 

I bow. “Jarl.” Then I turn and give the court wizard and the Thanes a nod. “Court.” 

“What are you doing here?” Erikur sneers. 

“I, my good sir, am advertising. Quite against my will.”

“Advertising?” Elisif asks. “For what?” 

“For a petty high elf with a grudge against my armor.” 

There’s an undignified snort from somewhere behind me that sounds suspiciously like laughter smothered in a steel helm. _By the Divines_...I roll my eyes. Falk looks as if he knows what I’m talking about. Elisif looks a little confused. 

I decide that if I’m in for a septim, might as well be in for a diamond. “Jarl Elisif,” I clasp my hands together and walk up to the throne. “Have you ever thought about what you’re wearing as you sit on your throne deciding the fate of Skyrim?” 

“Um…” 

“Great!” I don’t give her a chance to answer. “Because I haven’t either. But I’ve got just the thing for you.” 

Bolgier watches me carefully from his side of the room and takes a couple of steps forward (I can’t blame him. He is Elisif’s bodyguard after all, and the last time someone got within shouting distance of the High King’s throne, it didn’t end so well). Erikur stares at me like he might die of jealousy. I bet he’s never been this close to Elisif. Perks of being the Dragonborn, I suppose. 

“Oh! Brand, what are you--?” Elisif trails off as I whisk the circlet off her head and replace it with the one Taarie gave me. 

“You see, Jarl, changing up your colors is good every once in a while. Or so I’ve been told.” I grin and toss her circlet onto my head. “That, and I hear accessorizing is all the rage among the Thanes.” 

I unclasp the bearskin cape from around my shoulders and sling it around Elisif instead, clasping it by her right shoulder. Elisif and I are nearly face to face. Even Falk starts to put a hand out at this point. 

I lean back and look over at where Erikur wears an identical bear-skin cape. “Isn’t that right, Erikur?” 

He does what he always does when he doesn’t have an answer. He mumbles something and stuffs his face with bread. 

I turn back to Elisif, stepping off the dias. “But now, my Jarl, I bet you’re wondering where you can buy clothing this fine for yourself, aren’t you?” I spread my arms and show off my outfit. 

Elisif smiles. I can tell she’s trying to hold back a giggle. She reaches up and pulls my circlet off her head, holding it in her lap so she can look at it better. “Perhaps, I am, Dragonborn,” she says. 

“Oh good. Because this is where I throw in the advertising bit. You should go to Radiant Raiment in Solitude’s main square and speak to Taarie about setting you up with an outfit so that she’ll give me back my armor.” I wink. 

I think if Falk wasn’t honorbound to keep a straight face while at court he’d burst out laughing. The wizard looks like she thinks I’m even more of a fool. Bolgier looks like he might’ve decided I’m crazy, but at least his hand is off his sword. 

I pull Elisif’s circlet off my head and present it back to her with a bow.

She takes it while trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. 

“How’d I do?” I ask. 

“Don’t quit your Dragon-slaying job,” Falk says wryly.

“Alas, I wouldn’t, if only I had my armor.” 

Elisif laughs. “Alright, alright, Dragonborn. I will speak with Taarie at Radiant Raiment. And I will make sure that she understands that the Dragonborn is not to be relieved of his armor while on duty.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“Which is all the time,” she says. 

I make a show of sighing in relief. “Thank you, Jarl.” 

“Anything for you, Dragonborn.” Elisif tips her head. 

Falk clears his throat beside her. 

“Oh, yes! If you are quite done advertising, I have some business I need to return to,” she says.

“Carry on, Fair Jarl.” I bow. “I’m done disturbing the court.” 

I turn around and start to head down the stairs. Borgakh follows. As we pass Bolgier, he waves me over. 

“A moment, Dragonborn?” 

“Yes?” I step up to him. 

“Thanks for that.” 

I tilt my head. “For?” 

“For making her laugh,” he explains. “The Jarl has a lot on her plate these days, what with the death of her husband and the civil war. Not to mention those petty backbiters who call themselves Thanes. It was nice to see her smile.”

“Oh.” I’m at a loss for words for a second. “Well, you’re welcome.” 

“Just...don’t make a habit of getting that close to Elisif, yeah? I do have a bit of respect to maintain.” 

“Sure thing.” I give him a two-fingered salute. 

Bolgier waves me off. 

“Now what?” Borgakh asks. 

“Now back to Taarie,” I say. 

“Excellent.” This time she doesn’t bother hiding the glee in her voice. “You can tell me about breaking things in the Blue Palace on the way then.” 


	5. A Good Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got both longer and a bit more serious than I originally intended, but it's not always sunshine and roses in Skyrim, even for our upbeat Dragonborn.
> 
> I’ve also added a little more of my take on Orcish ritual/tradition here. In the game, you meet the Old Orc seeking a good death because he feels he can’t be useful anymore, but I’ve added some of my own reasons for why orcs might be wandering Skyrim seeking a “good death.”

**Borgakh**

We meet the orc in the wilds of Skyrim, sitting beside the road with a pile of dead sabercats. I know what he is as soon as I see him -- an outcast. He is a broad, muscular orc with large tusks and a streak or two of gray in his coal black hair. He sits on a rock beside the path, sharpening his axe. He wears simple fur armor without a shirt, putting the thick muscles in his arms and back on full display. A warrior. 

A lone warrior.

As orcs go, he is strong and attractive, even with a few years on him. He is an older orc -- but not old enough to be seeking a good death purely for the sake of it. Orcs that do not become chiefs or choose to pursue life outside of the clans often disappear and seek a good death when they feel they have outlived their purpose. It is a way to appease Malacath when your life has been lived too quietly. But, for an orc still in his prime -- and this orc is, despite the gray in his hair -- seeking a good death can mean only one thing. He has committed some atrocity and is seeking to make amends. He has done something dishonorable. He has shamed himself and his clan and seeks to make up for it in blood. My natural instinct is to draw the warhammer on my back, but I restrain myself. No matter what he has done, the orc is not a threat. At least, not yet. But I keep my eye on him as we draw closer. 

I don’t think Brand notices him, because he is doing that thing where he walks backwards on the road to talk to me. How he does it never ceases to amaze me. Not because I don’t have the coordination for it, but because I do not understand how he places his back to the world and does not feel exposed. I suppose when you are the Dragonborn, there’s not much out there that is a real threat. That, and I am always watching Brand’s back, whether he knows it or not. There is not much in Skyrim that could get close to him without my notice. 

And so, I watch the orc. 

The orc stands up as we get closer and walks out into the road. If Brand doesn’t turn around, he’s going to run into him. I smirk under my helmet and nod absently as Brand rambles.

“So, Borgakh, I think we should take a trip to Markarth. I know it’s a long way, but there’s some weird stuff going on out there, if the rumors are to be believed. I mean, cannibals, and daedric nonsense, not to mention something about the mine out there --” 

Brand stops abruptly as he runs into something. Namely, a mountain of an orc warrior. His eyes go wide for a second, then he shoots me an annoyed glare. He knows I would warn him if he is in any real danger. His hand barely strays toward his sword as he spins around. 

The orc doesn’t seem phased. In fact, from the amused look on his face, he might have been in on my little joke. I nod my head in greeting. The orc nods in return. Fully armored as I am, I doubt he knows I am a fellow orc. I don’t speak so as not to give myself away yet. 

Brand steps back and looks up at the orc. The orc is even taller than I am, which means Brand is dwarfed. He barely comes up to the orc’s shoulder. A smile tugs at my lips. I always forget how small Brand is when it is just the two of us. I have gotten used to his height. The orc stands with his axe unsheathed and held by his side. A gesture that shows he is alert, but not threatening us. 

“Little elf,” he says. 

The tips of Brand’s ears flare red, the only indication of his indignation. It is one of the signs I have come to find betray Brand’s emotions.

“Yes?” He tilts his head. 

The orc takes a moment to survey Brand. “You are the one they call Dragonborn?” he asks.

“I am. And you are?” 

“Dro Grabul.” 

Brand waits for the orc to add a house name, or at the very least, a warrior’s epithet, but he does not.

“Well met, Dro Grabul,” Brand says, but there’s a question in his voice. He shoots me a glance and I lift my shoulders slightly. “Were you looking for me?” 

“Perhaps,” Dro Grabul says. “I am seeking a good death. Can you give that to me, Dragonborn?” 

“A good death?” Brand quirks an eyebrow. “Is that what those were for?” he points at the saber cats. 

“They were not good enough.” The orc shrugs.

“I can see that.” Brand says dryly. 

Brand does not know orcish tradition like I do. This practice of seeking death would seem odd to him. Elves are ardent seekers of life. I have found most cultures do not dance as close to death as the orcs. Though I venture to say the Nords come closest to understanding the concept of an honorable death. They, at least, believe that a warrior should die with blade in hand. 

“Malacath demands that orc warriors die honorably. In combat. Not when they are old and grey and useless. So, I seek a good death.” 

“Ok.” Brand puts his hands on his hips. “But why?” 

Beneath my helm, I sigh. Of course the Dragonborn would ask why. 

The orc looks stunned for a second, as if no one has ever asked him this question before. They probably have not.

“Because Malacath demands it,” the orc says, as if that makes all the sense in the world. It does. And it does not. The more I travel with Brand, the more I realize that the orcish tradition of single-minded devotion might not always be the best course of action. I have never personally talked to Malacath. Part of me wonders if he really does demand death like this. 

“Yeah, I got that,” Brand says. “But why now? Why you? You don’t look like you’re near the end of your life.” 

The orc looks away suddenly, then back at Brand, so fast that I almost miss it. 

“I have outlived my usefulness, little elf. You would not understand. When an orc passes his prime, he is no longer of use to himself or his clan. He might as well seek death.” 

Brand tilts his head, like he is not satisfied with the answer, but he does not challenge it. Instead, he asks, “How am I a part of this good death?” 

“Because, you are the Dragonborn. Meeting death at the hands of a legend is good.” 

“I’m not an orcish legend.”

The orc pauses. Then he shrugs. “I imagine that Malacath does not care where the legend comes from.” 

“You seem to be in pretty tight with Malacath.” 

“Perhaps. Will you give me a good death, elf?” 

Brand sighs and looks around. “Here? Now?” 

“Why not?” 

I tap Brand on the shoulder. He looks back at me with a questioning look. I tilt my head toward the side of the road. He turns back to the orc. “Perhaps you will give me leave to consult with my...partner...before I answer?” he asks. 

The orc eyes me for a long moment. But then he nods. “Of course.” He steps back toward the pile of saber cats. 

I pull Brand over to the side of the road. 

“He’s lying,” I say as soon as we are out of earshot of the orc.

“How do you know?” 

“He’s not that old.” 

“That’s what I said. So what does that mean?” 

“He’s an outcast.” 

Brand motions with his hand for me to go on. “Borgakh, orcish tradition is never that simple. What does that  _ really _ mean?” 

“It means he disgraced his clan. Maybe murder. Or maybe he challenged the chief and lost. Whatever he did, it means he owes loyalty to no one. As far as the orcs are concerned, he is the walking dead.” 

Brand stiffens a little at the venom in my tone. “That bad, huh? So, should I kill him?” 

I shrug. “That is up to you. But I should warn you about the orcish tradition of a good death.” 

“Sure.” 

“It is a fight to the death.” 

Brand gives me a deadpan stare. “Really? A fight to the good death ends in death?” 

I punch him in the arm. 

He grins. 

“He will expect you to fight without your Dragonborn powers,” I continue. 

“OK, so I just use my sword.” 

I shake my head. “No enchantments. No magic. Nothing but sheer strength.” 

“Well, darn, I’m not a very good death if you take away all my flash and pizazz.” 

I put my hands on my hips and stare down at Brand. 

“You know I hate it when you do that,” he says. “Take off the helm. Please?” 

“I would, just so you can see the intensity of the stare I am giving you right now, but I do not want the scum to know I am an orc.” 

“Ooohhh, I see.” 

“Precisely.” 

Brand sighs. “So, I’m supposed to duke it out with this guy?” 

“No, you can use a weapon. Just...a natural one.” 

He looks at me incredulously. “What’s unnatural about my sword?” 

“Well, the fact that it’s made of glass for one.” 

“That’s not...oh, screw it. Fine. Then what do I fight with?” 

“My warhammer.” 

Brand looks thoughtful. “I think I can do that.” 

I sigh. Loudly. We both know he can fight with my warhammer. He’s done it before. 

He grins at me. “So, how do we approach this one?” 

“Pretend you know nothing about orcs or what I just told you,” Borgakh said. “Ask him under what terms he fights and what that means. Get him to tell you the rules. That way, he’ll think he’s got an advantage over you. And, I’ll know if he twists anything to his favor.” 

“Borgakh!” Brand gives me a look of mock astonishment. “Are you suggesting subterfuge?” 

I look away and mutter something about how Brand is rubbing off on me. 

Brand laughs and sheds his backpack, pulling out the leather helm Shuftharz made him a few weeks ago. He’s slowly been accruing a full set of her black leather armor and he’s got the cuirass, helm and greaves now. He puts the helm on, hiding his red mohawk. I think the helm makes him look fierce. It curves back in the shape of a dragon’s head, with curling silver horns on either side. The nosepiece is engraved to look like fire. 

Then Brand steps out into the road. “Alright, Dro Grabul, I accept. I’ll be your good death.” 

Dro Grabul smiles, a wicked looking smile. “Excellent,” he says. 

“Under what terms do we fight?” Brand asks. 

“The terms of Malacath.”

Brand gives a little half-shrug. “Sorry, I’m a wood-elf. What are the terms of Malacath?”

Dro Grabul’s smile looks more like a sneer. “Typical, you elves, so focused on your own culture that you can’t be bothered to learn anyone else’s.” 

Brand frowns, but he doesn’t answer. 

Dro Grabul continues. "Orcs fight on strength alone. An honest, clean fight. No magic, no interference. Just the two of us and a judge. Your partner can be the judge.” 

“Alright.” Brand nods and draws his sword. Lightning flickers along the length of the enchanted blade. 

“No magic,” Dro Grabul snarls. 

“Not even an enchanted sword?” Brand asks innocently. 

Dro Grabul shakes his head severely. 

Brand looks over at me with a confused expression. I have to hide a laugh. He’s laying it on thick. 

I pull the warhammer off my back and offer it to Brand. 

“I can’t use that,” he protests. 

I’m trying to figure out how to answer Brand without speaking, but Dro Grabul beats me to it. 

“Are you afraid, little elf?” he taunts. 

Brand scowls. “Of course not. But that thing’s nearly as tall as I am.” 

Dro Grabul shrugs. “You are the Dragonborn, are you not? You’ll think of something.” 

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” Brand sighs. But he steps over to me and hands me his sword, hilt first. I put it at my belt and hand him my warhammer. He grips it in an awkward two-handed grip. He’s exaggerating his clumsiness -- but not entirely. He has fought with my hammer before, once or twice when we were in a tough spot. He can lift it without trouble, but it is longer than it should be for someone of his height. Which means he has to compensate for the extra length when he makes a swing. But it also means he can keep Dro Grabul at more of a distance. The orc is only armed with a battle axe, which, while sharp and deadly, is shorter than the warhammer and doesn’t have as much raw power. 

Dro Grabul watches curiously as we swap weapons, one side of his mouth drawn up in a half-smile. 

Brand winks at me and returns to his ready stance in the road.

“No Shouting, Dragonborn,” Dro Grabul says. 

“Shouting is what I do best, you know.” 

Dro Grabul makes a sound in the back of his throat like a grunt or a growl. I don’t know if he means it to be dismissal or agreement. “No magic. No Shouting. Are we clear?” 

“We’re clear. No magic,” Brand makes a show of resting the warhammer on the ground so he can draw an X over his heart with one hand. “Promise.” 

I step up to the side of the road. “Are the contestants ready?” I ask. 

Dro Grabul studies me for a long moment, then he nods. Brand gives me a fierce grin. 

“Begin!”

* * *

Brand staggers back, his right arm in close to his side and heaves in a deep breath. Despite his shorter reach, Dro Grabul has landed several hits and although none of them were deadly, they wear Brand down. 

Brand has landed a few blows of his own and Dro Grabul favours his left leg, but he powers through it as if the injury is nothing. Orcs have a fair amount of battle stamina, and a rage can induce even more, but I am starting to suspect this orc has some unnatural aid. After all, I am fairly certain I see bone poking out of his left ankle. 

Brand is a great warrior in his own right, but he was right. When you strip him of his abilities as Dragonborn, he is simply an exceptionally quick and strong wood-elf. Pitting him against an orc isn’t unfair, per se, but he is at something of a disadvantage. Under normal circumstances, I would not be concerned about him fighting an orc, but if Dro Grabul has an unfair advantage, then who knows what else he will do to win?

I will not let Brand’s lifeblood stain the Skyrim roads this day.

But I am honorbound not to intervene. If I do, then Dro Grabul cannot regain his honor. If I do, then I tarnish my own honor. 

But what good is honor if --

A yell from the fighters brings my attention back to the fight. Brand shouts a battle cry and whips the warhammer toward Dro Grabul’s head. Instead of trying to deflect the blow, as anyone would normally do, the orc steps forward so that he is inside the arc of the hammer and takes the haft on his neck. He grunts, but he brings his axe up for a deadly swing. 

Brand abandons the warhammer to let it complete its arc on its own and drops to the ground, rolling out of the way of the axe and behind the orc, where he grabs the warhammer off the ground. He rises to one knee and crouches, watching the orc. Then his eyes flick up to me. 

There’s a question there.  _ Is this normal? _

I shake my head. Not even a raging orc should be able to take a swing like that. Even though Dro Grabul took the strike on the haft and not a direct hit from the hammer, the weight of the hammer should have been enough to break his neck. At the very least, it should have put him on his knees. 

“Do you give up, Dragonborn?” Dro Grabul taunts. 

“No.”

“Then why do you hesitate?” 

Brand stands up slowly. He could move faster, but he gives the illusion of succumbing to his injuries. “I call respite,” he says. 

The orc’s eyes flash. 

I’m impressed. Brand is using the rules of an honorable duel against the orc. In any contest of strength, the fighters are allowed one respite each. A short break in the fight to gather their wits and strength. I didn’t think Brand knew about that.

“There is no respite in a duel to the death, Dragonborn,” Dro Grabul sneers. 

“There is in a duel to the good death,” I say. 

He turns slowly to look at me. 

I cross my arms. 

“And what would you know of a good death, judge?” he sneers. 

I pull off my helm and give him my most charming smile.

Orcs don’t really go pale like humans do, but I swear Dro Grabul gets a shade or two lighter. 

“Fine,” he growls.

I nod. “Respite is granted. Five minutes.” 

Dro Grabul retreats to his pile of saber cats. Brand comes to stand by me. He is breathing hard. Harder than he should be. I look him over. He has a few minor wounds, but nothing that looks deadly to me. 

“What do you think?” he asks. He pulls off his helm and runs his fingers through sweat-damp hair. He props the helm under one arm and rests the warhammer on its head, leaning casually against the haft. He looks relaxed, at ease, but I can see the underlying tension in his posture. 

“Skooma,” I say. 

He looks at me in surprise. “Really? I thought you orcs were above that kind of stuff.” 

“We are,” I snarl.

“You sure it’s not just oakenform or something?” 

“Orcs are not natural mages. I would bet on skooma before magic,” I say. “What do you think?” 

“Enchanted axe,” he says. 

It’s my turn to show surprise. “You sure?” 

“Yeah. I feel like I could sleep for a week. He’s got an enchantment on the blade. I don’t know how he managed it without making the axe glow, but he’s barely scratched me and I feel like I’ve been slapped by a giant.”

I resist the urge to give Dro Gabul my best death stare. The cheater stands across the road, impassive, axe held loose at his side, watching us. 

Brand takes a slow, deep breath. “So, do you really think he’s trying to kill me or --” 

“Yes.”

“Alrighty then.” 

“What will you do? By the rules of Malacath, I cannot interfere.” 

“Mm-hm. But, by the rules of Malacath, once the rules are broken, then anything is fair game, right?” 

I look down at Brand sharply. “How do you know so much about the rules of Malacath all of a sudden?” 

“Hey, I read some of the books we find in the tombs, you know.” 

I chuckle. “Is that what you do when you can’t sleep?”

He looks oddly serious. “Sometimes.” He puts his helm back on. “If my calculations are correct, we’re at four and a half minutes.” 

Across the road, Dro Grabul smiles and swings his axe. 

I nod. “So, what’s your plan?” 

“Simple. Do what I do best.” 

“But you promised --” 

“I promised not to use magic. He asked for strength and strength alone. I think he forgets that my strength comes from the dragons. Let’s give this sucker a show he’ll never forget.”

I smile. “Let’s.”

* * *

The fighters return to their positions. Brand stands with his feet apart, shoulders back, the warhammer held crosswise in front of him. Dro Grabul stands casually, weight on one leg, hips canted, his axe down by his side. Cocky. Assured. 

He does not even try to hide the fact that he stands on his injured leg as if it is no big deal. Skooma, for sure. A simple mage’s spell, like oakenform, can prevent damage, but it cannot dull the effects of pain. Skooma, in large enough quantities can block pain from the mind for a while. When coupled with an orc’s natural battle rage, it makes for a nearly unstoppable deathless warrior. For a few minutes anyway. Which is probably why Dro Grabul was so opposed to a respite. The longer he has to fight, the less effective his skooma-induced rage will be. 

Perhaps Brand has put those pieces together too, but I wait with baited breath as the fighters face each other. 

“Are the fighters ready?” I ask. 

Both give me a nod. 

“Then begin.” 

Dro Grabul rushes Brand like an enraged bull right out of the gate. There is no holding back. He rains blows on Brand like an orc possessed. Brand barely has the speed to deflect them all, but he does, even though he is forced to give ground to do it. He finally finds an opening and he lashes out with the butt-end of the hammer, catching Dro Grabul in the stomach. The orc warrior lets out his breath in a huff, doubling up for a moment. 

Instead of pressing his opening, Brand steps back. “It’s starting to wear off, isn’t it, Dro Grabul?” he taunts.

“What?” Dro Grabul straightens up, wiping spit from the corner of his mouth. “What are you talking about, elf?” 

“The skooma.” Brand grins. Under his black helmet, the expression is positively devilish. 

Dro Grabul’s eyes widen before he can stop them, but he brings his expression under control quickly. 

“You insult me!” he roars. He charges again. Again, Brand deflects the blows, all the while giving ground to stay out of the way of the axe. What is he doing? I want to shout at him, but I do not want to risk breaking his concentration. 

“On the contrary!” Brand shouts in between swings. “You insult me, Dro Grabul! You ask for a good death and then you cheat! Do you know what that means? By the code of Malacath, do you know --” 

Brand does not get to finish his sentence. Dro Grabul roars with animal fury and charges Brand with his shoulder. Taken by surprise, Brand raises the warhammer and takes the full brunt of the orc’s charge. There is no way that he can withstand a charge like that, not without a shout. Sheer size takes Brand off his feet and throws him to the ground as Dro Grabul crashes into him like a running bear. Brand lands on his back a few feet away, winded, but otherwise unhurt. 

Dro Grabul straddles him and raises his axe over his head. “Even you are not enough for a good death, little elf!” he snarls. 

I draw Brand’s sword, but I will not make it to them in time to stop what is coming. 

Dro Grabul’s axe descends. 

I yell. 

“Mul Qah Diiv!” Brand Shouts. The ethereal aspect of a dragon springs up around him, glowing in vibrant blue, red and gold. The horns of the dragon aspect sweep back over the horns of his helm and his arms and chest are covered in ghostly, glowing scales. 

He blocks the axe right before it would have sunk into his chest, catching the blade on the haft of the warhammer, held crosswise over his body. 

Dro Grabul shudders with the force of his own swing, eyes widening in surprise and fear as he realizes that he is up against a force of nature. “You...you cheated!” he snarls. “You promised not to Shout!” 

“No,” Brand says. “I didn’t. I promised not to use magic. This isn’t magic, Dro Grabul. This is the power of the Thu’um!” He shouts the last part and Dro Grabul flinches from his voice. 

Brand pushes the warhammer up, forcing Dro Grabul’s axe to rise. Then he sits up, rising smoothly from the ground, pushing the larger orc back the entire time. He rises to his feet until the two are face to face. And despite their height difference, Brand seems to loom over Dro Grabul. 

“Do you yield, Dro Grabul?” Brand asks. His voice is sharp and loud and I fight the urge to cover my ears. I know that the Thu’um is powerful and that it can force those of lesser will to bend to it. It can even kill by sheer strength of the speaker, if the Greybeards are to be believed. Dro Grabul’s knees shake, but he still keeps Brand’s warhammer at bay, his axe locked with the haft of the hammer. 

“This...is...a fight to the death...Dragonborn,” he snarls. “I will not yield.” 

“It will not be a good death, orc,” Brand says. And there is something sad in his voice, something powerfully melancholy. Perhaps it is the Thu’um again, but I almost feel like crying. 

Brand speaks again. “I ask one more time, do you yield?” 

Apparently Dro Grabul does not. He growls and jerks his axe back, unlocking the two weapons, and renews his attack with greater fury than before. Even with the dragon aspect, Brand takes a few hits, but they ring off of his ethereal scales like water off a roof. The axe throws sparks every time it strikes dragon scale. 

Brand does not give ground any more. He pushes Dro Grabul back, ever closer to the saber cats, raining blow after blow until Dro Grabul can barely bring his arm up to block the warhammer anymore. Brand’s next swing takes the axe clean out of Dro Grabul’s hand. The orc howls and holds his hand close to his chest. It looks broken. 

“On your knees, orc,” Brand says. 

Dro Grabul glares at him, but he stumbles to his knees, compelled by the raw power in Brand’s voice. I have never seen Brand use the Thu’um like this before. I have never seen him more powerful, more angry, more terrifying. I can understand why the Dragonborn was sent to slay dragons. Right now, Brand looks as if he could slay anything. 

“Do you wish for mercy?” Brand asks. 

Dro Grabul lifts his head and spits on Brand. 

Brand looks up at me and his gaze is immensely tired. “Judge?” 

“It is done,” I say and nod once, the signal for the fight to end. 

Brand nods in return and brings the warhammer down in a bloody, terrible arc. Dro Grabul crashes headlong onto the ground, atop his pile of saber cats. 

“Malacath rest his soul,” I say.

* * *

We give Dro Grabul a proper burial and although I hate to say it, we find an empty skooma vile in the pouch at his belt, along with a few scrolls for enchanting. What we do not find is any sort of clan sigil or note about his family. Brand and I are perhaps the only ones who know that the poor soul died. 

And so it is with somber steps that we start back down the road. We only go a little way before the dragon aspect wears off. Brand stumbles as the scales flicker and he diminishes, back to himself, back to a slight wood elf in bloody, black armor. He gasps, as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water on his head, and his knees buckle. I catch him before he hits the road. 

I sink to my knees on the dusty road with Brand cradled in my arms. He lets his head drop against my shoulder, his breathing shallow, as if all of his energy was sapped in an instant. 

“Are you alright?” I ask. 

He shudders and grimaces. “I told you it was an enchanted axe,” he murmurs. And that’s when I notice the blood, almost invisible against his black cuirass, flowing from his left shoulder. 

“You’re wounded,” I say. 

“Yes. He did get a hit or two in.” 

“But, the aspect…?” 

“That’s why my arm is still attached to my shoulder.” The hint of a smile flickers at his mouth. “It doesn’t stop damage entirely. But it does absorb a lot of it.” 

“Stupid elf,” I say.

“Hey!” he protests weakly. “That’s not fair.” 

I rummage in my satchel for a healing potion and pull it out. “Drink this.” 

He does without much complaint, even though he grimaces at the taste. Then he settles more fully against me. He looks exhausted. Being Dragonborn might give him a lot of powers that normal elves do not have, but I sometimes forget that it does not make him invincible. Still, I do not think he should be this worn out from the fight. 

“Brand?” I ask softly. 

“Hmm?” 

“What did you do back there?” 

He is quiet for a moment. “What do you mean?” 

“With your voice? When you told Dro Grabul to kneel?” 

“Oh,” he says so quietly I almost do not hear him. “That.” He takes a deep breath. “I used the Thu’um. But not like what the Greybeards teach. Not like the Shouts. There’s a...power to it. I don’t really know how it works, myself, but it’s something I can feel in my chest, like a well about to overflow. I can tap into it, but…” 

“But it takes your strength to do it,” I finish. 

He looks up at me, surprised. “Yeah. How’d you…?” 

“I was watching,” I say. 

He sighs. 

“For being an elf, you can be terrifying, you know." 

He laughs softly but there’s something sad in it. “That’s all part of being a Nordic legend, I guess.” He pushes himself off my shoulder and sits up. There’s a little more color in his face now that the potion is starting to work. 

I can hear the unspoken words as he stands up.  _ But that is the part I do not like.  _

I stand beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. 

Today we won. But not all wins are victories. This took something from Brand. Something I am not entirely sure how to put back. 

He still gives me a smile when he looks up at me. But for the first time, I notice a little pain behind the light in his eyes. I wonder how much I really know about the Dragonborn, this wood elf who paid my dowry, the man I have come to call friend. 

And so I make myself a promise as I fall into step beside him. That whatever happens, I will not leave him. Because he might be Skyrim’s most powerful legend, but at the end of the day, he is just a little elf and sometimes he needs a shoulder to lean on. 

I might be a gruff warrior, but I also have shoulders. 

And so I will stay. 

Always. 


	6. The Dragonborn at Home

**Brand**

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Borgakh (and to a lesser extent, Lydia) it’s that neither of them are big on privacy. Perhaps it comes from living close to other warriors while on campaigns or, in Borgakh’s case, from living in the clan-style orc stronghold, where everyone is family, but neither one of them are the least bit embarrassed by walking into my room at all hours of the day or night, regardless of what I’m doing. Lydia at least has the decency to tell me she’ll return if she catches me in the middle of bathing or dressing, but Borgakh? Well, if Borgakh walks in on me, she just stands quietly in the corner of my bedroom until I’m done. And sometimes she’ll carry on whatever conversation she came to have with me as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to chat me up in the buff. Which, I guess, being used to such close-quarters as the orc strongholds, is probably something that happens quite often in the longhouse.

But it’s a habit I’m not entirely used to yet. Elves are a lot more solitary than orcs (and even Nords) and I still find it odd that either one of my female companions will just barge into my room whenever they have something to say.

This morning, Borgakh walks up as I’m about to get out of bed. I hastily pull the sheet back over myself, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, and try to make it look like I was nonchalantly sitting here. At least I don’t blush. 

Borgakh pauses at the foot of my bed, taking me in, and then she takes in the pile of clothes beside my bed. She gives me a knowing look. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she says. “There’s not much difference between orcs and elves down there. Except for size.” She grins wickedly. 

I decide not to make a joke about being well-endowed. She’d probably take it literally and start comparing me to the size of said orcs. “Good morning to you too, Borgakh. I don’t know about you, but most people knock before barging into other people’s bedrooms.” 

“If you kept your door closed, I would,” she says matter-of-factly.

I stare at the doorframe critically. I usually leave the doors to my room wide open, much to Lydia’s chagrin. It’s too much trouble to open and close them all the time when I'm usually running by the house, dropping off a few treasures, grabbing a few needed items, and hitting the road again. The fact that I even manage to keep the front door closed is nearly a miracle. “Touché.” 

Borgakh puts her hands on her hips with a wide grin. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit then?” I ask.

Borgakh snorts. “The fact that it’s ten in the morning.” 

“So?” 

“So, were you planning on sleeping all day?” 

“Maybe I was.” I shrug. It’s rare that I get a day to myself, a day to sleep or relax without being summoned to somebody’s court, or whisked off to fight a dragon, or given a bounty for a bandit-infested cave. Some days, the Dragonborn needs sleep. And when I first woke up this morning and heard rain pounding the roof of Breezehome, I decided today was a good day for sleeping in.

Borgakh looks slightly disgusted, like I suggested that we commit some sort of crime. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in bed later than 7am. How she does it, I’m not entirely sure, because I’ve also seen her burn the midnight oil, reading books in the living room by lamplight long after I’ve gone to bed. And she’s still awake, alert, and armored every morning (usually before I am.) 

Today is no different. Borgakh stands at the foot of the bed, fully armored. “You won’t get anything accomplished sitting in bed like that.” 

“Sure I will. It’s called relaxing,” I say. “You should try it sometime.” 

Borgakh rolls her eyes. “You have a massive pile of bounties sitting on the shelves downstairs, at least three summons from various Jarls, a couple of death threats from I forget who this time, and a request from Danica Purespring to do something about the Eldergleam and you want to _relax_?” 

I pretend to think it over carefully and then I give Borgakh my biggest, most charming grin. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.” 

Borgakh grumbles something under her breath.

“And it’s what you’re going to do too,” I say. 

She glares at me. 

I gesture at the roof, as if to indicate the heavy rain. 

“Rain never killed anyone,” Borgakh says. 

“But I’m sure it’s rusted more than its fair share of good armor,” I waggle my eyebrows. 

Borgakh rolls her eyes. “Ebony doesn’t rust.” 

“Right, but you don’t have an entire Ebony suit yet,” I point out. 

“Orcish steel doesn’t rust either.” 

“Borgakh, don’t make me do this.” 

“Do what?” she asks, mock innocently. 

“Order you to relax.” 

“Under what authority?” She arches an eyebrow imperiously. 

“Mine,” I said, letting a little bit of the Thu’um slip into my voice. 

Borgakh blinks at me. Then she smiles, but it's Daedrically devious. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing?” 

“Yes,” I say. “Because I for one am taking the day off.” 

“Fine. I’m going downstairs.” She says it like it's a battle challenge, but she's hiding a grin as she spins on her heel and leaves my room. 

“Hey, Borgakh, close the -- oh, nevermind,” I sigh as she walks downstairs leaving the doors wide open. I can see that Lydia’s door is also open, which means she isn’t in her room (unlike me, she has the sensible habit of closing the door when she doesn’t want guests). I get up, close the doors loud enough that Borgakh will hear downstairs, and throw on a pair of pants. 

* * *

When I get downstairs, Borgakh is sitting by the fire reading a book. She is still wearing parts of her armor, but at least she has taken off the chest plate so that she looks mildly more comfortable. And she isn’t armed (although her sword and bow lean up against the chair she’s sitting in.) I shake my head. She truly doesn’t know what it means to relax. 

I walk over to our food cabinet and start rummaging around for some breakfast. 

“Where’s Lydia?” I ask. 

“Out,” Borgakh says. “She said she had some errands to run.” 

“In this weather?” 

“Like I told you before, rain never killed anyone, little elf.” 

I sigh loudly and then let out a little exclamation of joy. There’s a plate of sweet rolls and honey treats sitting on the edge of the table, and from the smell of them, they’re fresh. 

“Did Lydia make these?” I ask. 

“No, I bought them this morning at the inn before I woke you up.” 

I glance over at Borgakh, but her nose is buried in her book again. 

“They would’ve been warmer if you’d gotten up sooner,” she says absolutely dead-pan. 

I laugh and grab a plate from the cabinet, filling it with an assortment of the sticky treats. I grab a bottle of mead and join Borgakh by the fire, curling up in the chair opposite her. I dig in. 

Across the fire, Borgakh makes a tutting sound. 

“Wha?” I ask, my mouth full. 

“You are eating sugar for breakfast.” 

“You bo’ ‘em fer me.” 

“Swallow,” she says sternly. 

I do and grin at her. 

She sighs in mock exasperation and looks back at her book. 

I eat a couple of treats and take a few swigs of mead. Then I ask, “Whatcha reading?” 

“One of the Nordic histories. About Talos. Seems to me he was a dirty old man.” She frowns. “How does that get one ascension and godhood?” 

I shrug. “I dunno. We elves don’t put much stock in Talos. The Thalmor consider it heresy to worship him.” 

“And you?” Borgakh asks. 

“I don’t really know. I figure that’s something the gods can sort out among themselves. I don’t worship him, though, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Who do you worship?” she asks. 

“The Eight,” I say. 

“You elves like to complicate matters.” 

“Complicate them?” I raise an eyebrow and take another sip of mead, then dig into my last sweetroll. 

“Having so many gods. How do you know which one to worship on what day? How do you remember who presides over what? I prefer the simplicity of one god.” 

I shrug. “I guess it’s easy when that’s what you’ve been raised to do. Personally? I probably don’t owe as much allegiance to the gods as I should, although I can’t say I’ve ever been reprimanded for it. The gods are fickle creatures. I’ve found that they’re as like to help as to give you cryptic advice and look the other way while you get devoured by something nasty in the wild.” 

“You do not have much faith in your gods, elf.” 

I feel strangely uncomfortable at Borgakh’s proclamation. “Carrying a sword helps,” I say. 

“Do you not feel closer to the gods, being Dragonborn?” she asks. At this point, Borgakh has abandoned her book entirely and it sits closed on her lap. 

“I...I don’t know,” I admit. “Should I?” 

Borgakh shrugs. “Perhaps. It seems to me that the Thu’um is something god-like. That you have been blessed beyond the scope of a normal mortal.” 

I'm not sure how to answer her. She is right, as usual. I am obviously more than a mortal and in some ways nearly god-like. Were my powers invested in someone more tyrannical than myself, like Ulfric Stormcloak, the Dragonborn could become a nearly unstoppable god. Maybe that’s how Talos ascended, or at least convinced a nation that he was a god. 

“But why me?” I ask aloud. 

“What do you mean?” Borgakh looks puzzled. 

“Why me? Why am I the Dragonborn. I’m not a Nord. I’m not even a good guy!” 

“You seem like a decent man to me,” Bogakh says. “For an elf,” she adds with a sparkle of laughter in her eye. 

“I haven’t always been,” I say. 

“Is that where the marks come from?” Borgakh asks. 

“Marks?” This time, I do feel heat rush to my cheeks. On good days, I nearly forget that not all the scars on my back come from battles. Borgakh is observant and has seen me shirtless often enough to notice. But her gaze is on my wrists now and I look down, seeing the faint scars that are usually covered by strips of leather or cloth, or my gauntlets. I’d completely forgotten to cover them this morning when I hastily dressed and joined Borgakh downstairs. Not that this is the first time she could have seen them, but it’s the most obvious time. 

“You don’t get those from a sword,” she says.

I sigh. “I was...a thief, back in Valenwood.” 

“Your homeland?” 

I nod. “I was a pretty good thief, too, and I got a reputation as The Raven. My calling card was a single black feather and I was hired by everybody from petty merchants to nobles to obtain goods and redistribute wealth.” 

Borgakh doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me solemnly, her face an unreadable mask. She doesn’t look angry, per se, although her resting face is stern, especially with her tusks. I squirm a little in my seat, but I continue. I’ve never told this story to anyone in Skyrim and there’s something freeing in telling it now. That and deep down, I want Borgakh to know. It’s only fair if she’s going to travel with me permanently (which seems more and more likely as she hasn’t left my company yet.)

“It did not last, did it?” Borgakh interrupts my thoughts. 

I smile grimly. “No. I was young -” 

“You’re still young, elf.” 

“ _ Younger. _ ” 

She lifts her lip in something that is almost a smile. 

“I got cocky and robbed a high priest one night. And then the next night and then a third time and I got away with his holy relics. I lived like a king for the next few days, hopping towns, pawning fingerbones and pieces of some dead saint’s robe. Except that I was way too obvious and a snitch ratted me out. They caught me dead drunk in an inn at some ungodly hour in the morning. I couldn’t have resisted even if I wanted to.” 

Borgakh frowns. I feel something inside me sink, but I’m this far in the story. Might as well continue. 

“I spent a few months in the castle dungeons, at the mercy of the high priest, who was especially fond of the whip.” The words were nearly a whisper now. I unconsciously reach up to my shoulder, where the faded scars begin, stretching all the way to my hips. They are the faintest of my scars now, not entirely visible beneath the newer marks of sword and claw unless you look for them, but they are still there. I still feel them beneath my fingertips.

“You were a prisoner,” Borgakh says softly. She glances at my wrists again with something akin to horror in her eyes. While there’s no race in Skyrim who would submit willingly to chains, orcs are those perhaps most offended by the idea of being contained. 

I nod, clearing my throat a few times before I find words. “Suffice to say, I paid for those holy relics twice over in blood.” 

“That is cruel.” 

“That’s life.” I shrug. 

“It should not be.” 

“I thought orcs liked spilling blood,” I say cheekily. Perhaps it comes from my own embarrassment, perhaps it is to rile Borgakh and see what she says. 

She takes a deep breath through her nose and her fingers tighten on the arm of her chair, but her voice is steady. “Orcs do not spill blood needlessly. We are warriors, yes, but we do not believe in torture or violence for the sake of violence. If I kill a man, then he deserves it. If I fight, then there is good reason. Only honorless knaves spill blood as if it were water.” Her eyes flash and I remember the orc I fought a few weeks ago, the one seeking a “good death.” The outcast. 

“Sorry,” I say. 

Borgakh waves a hand at me as if to say it is nothing, but there is still a spark of anger in her eye. We sit in silence for a moment, neither of us sure what to say. 

“So how did you end up in Skyrim, then?” Borgakh finally asks. 

I stare into the fire. “Prison caravan. Valenwood has a nasty habit of sending the criminals they tire of torturing out into the wilderness to live or die as Kynereth and her elements see fit. I was one of the lucky few who got carted up to cold, frozen, desolate Skyrim.” My voice drips with sarcasm. 

“And yet, you are still alive,” she says. 

“Can’t argue there.”

“How did you survive?” 

“Honestly? I almost didn’t. When the caravan released us, we were in the middle of a forest somewhere, no provisions, hardly enough clothing to stay warm, no weapons. Our jailers simply tossed us out of the wagon, hands still bound, wished us luck, and disappeared.” 

“There were others with you?” 

I nodded. “A few.” 

“What happened to them?” 

“I don’t know. None of us stuck around long enough to find out. We split ways, too afraid that the others might try to kill us, I guess. After all, we were all criminals.” I smile wryly. 

Borgakh shakes her head. I’m not sure if it’s with disappointment or disbelief. 

“So, then what?” she asks. “You found a town?” 

I chuckle. “Hardly. I found Ulfric Stormcloak and a group of his advance scouts. They grabbed me in the woods, half frozen to death, and started accusing me of being a Thalmor spy. At this point, I nearly didn’t care. But while the Stormcloaks were arguing about what to do with me, an Imperial patrol rode by and captured all of us. They took us to Helgen.” 

“Helgen? You mean the city the dragon attacked?” 

“The very same.” 

“You were there when the dragon came?” 

“Technically, the dragon saved my life. I was on the headsman’s block when he showed up. Turns out the Imperials aren’t very picky when it comes to whose head they lop off. They lumped me in with the Stormcloaks.” 

Borgakh gives me a sly look. “And you still want me to believe that the gods haven’t intervened in your life much?”

I pause. I’m not quite sure how to answer that. 

“So, you got off the block, I take it,” she prompts. 

“Uh, right. I was waiting on the axe to descend when the dragon swooped out of nowhere and landed on a nearby tower and everybody just sort of forgot about beheading me.” 

“Then what happened?” 

“Well, then an Imperial soldier named Hadvar helped me escape Helgen and took me to Riverwood. He gave me supplies and suggested that I warn Jarl Balgruuf of the return of the dragons and that’s kind of how it all started.” 

“When did you figure out you were dragonborn?” 

“After I talked to Balgruuf and a dragon landed at the old watchtower on the plain. I joined a party of guards led by Irileth to go and fight the beast. When we killed it, I absorbed its soul. And while I was still reeling from the fact that I had the power of a dragon buzzing around my skull, the Whiterun guards fawned all over me like I was some sort of hero. Irileth had to get them to back off and give me enough space to breathe.” 

Borgakh is smiling at me now. “So, overnight, you went from criminal to hero.” 

I can’t help but give her a smile in return. “Something like that.” 

“See, Brand, you’re not so bad. Everyone has a past. Some of them are more desirable than others, but the past is not what is important. It is what we do now that is important. And now, I see a selfless elf doing his best to save a world that is not really even his.” 

“Borgakh --” 

She holds up a hand to stop me. 

“There are a lot of people who would have stopped long ago,” she says. “Or who would have taken this chance at redemption as an excuse to continue their old ways. But you...you are different. You chose to take the hand the gods gave you and let them pull you to your feet and set you on a new path. I think you listen to them more than you think.” 

“I’m not --” 

“Shh, little elf. Do not ruin the moment.” Borgakh grins widely, eyes locked on mine.

I look away first, feeling oddly laid bare by her frank assessment. And yet, it’s a feeling I don’t entirely mind. It feels good to finally tell my story. Even better, I told someone who didn’t accuse me of abusing my power, or run from my past. I have to admit, orcs do have a refreshing sense of redemption and believe heavily in giving people a chance to redeem their honor. They will also be the first to persecute liars, traitors, and double-crossers, but it’s not for lack of offering a chance at forgiveness.

“Now, what say you we find a better book to read,” Borgakh says, “and spend this forced relaxation together?” 

I laugh out loud, head back. “No one’s forcing you to sit here, Borgakh.” 

“I know.” She grins at me. “But perhaps I have time for another story before I must find some sort of work to do. After all, I think it's raining harder now.” 

“That’s the spirit, my friend!” I cheer. “And would you, perhaps, also have time for a mead to go with your story?” 

Borgakh mutters something under her breath, but she takes the bottle that I go get from the food cabinet without complaint. I settle down on the floor next to her and open my second bottle of mead as Borgakh searches the bookshelves for a suitable tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly forgot to add these, lol.  
> The backstory that Brand gives is one of my own creation given for him in another (unposted) version of his story where he comes to Skyrim and joins the Thieves' Guild. Of course, that's not the direction I took with this story, but he does end up in the unfortunate position of our well-known Skyrim opening. I actually didn't originally intend for his backstory to mesh with the real opening of Skyrim so well, but I'm kind of glad it did ;)


	7. Most Days He is Tolerable (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This adventure ended up being a bit longer than some of the others, but it is a longer questline, so I decided to spit it into two chapters just so it wouldn’t be so lengthy ;) This is one of my favorite quests in Skyrim, if nothing else for the sheer silliness of it (that, and the staff is...mostly...worth all the trouble.) XD

**Borgakh**

When I finally track down Brand, he is in the Temple of Dibella in Markarth. He looks terrible and is being berated by a very irate priestess. I walk in and lean against one of the giant statues of Dibella, waiting with crossed arms as Brand gets his dressing down. 

“In the sacred pool no less!” the priestess shouts. 

Brand winces. I notice that he is soaking wet, shivering and dripping little puddles of water all over the floor. He looks smaller than normal somehow. If I did not know otherwise, I would laugh if you told me he is a Nord hero. Right now, he is simply a bedraggled, wet and confused wood elf. 

With a terrible hangover judging by the way he shies away from the light and the priestess’ voice. 

“I swear I don’t know how I got here,” Brand says, his voice hoarse, as if he’s been shouting (or singing a lot of rowdy drinking songs.) 

“Of course you don’t.” The priestess scowls and puts her hands on her hips. “And I suppose you don’t remember trashing our temple either? Or Shouting your way in here like some lunatic? You do know that the inner sanctum is only for female initiates, don’t you?” 

Brand bites his lip and looks away.

One side of the priestess’ mouth is lifted in a cruel smirk, but her expression softens a little as she looks at my exhausted Dragonborn. “You didn’t make it that far, Dragonborn,” she says, a little more gently. 

An expression of immense relief crosses Brand’s face. 

“But I do expect you to clean up the mess in here.” She gestures to the Temple interior. There are wine bottles all over the floor, along with random alchemical ingredients, some of which are, indeed, floating in the pool of water on the raised dias in the center of the room. 

Brand heaves a sigh. 

I decide to take that as my cue to make my presence known. I walk into the light. 

The priestess gives me a calculated look. I am female, but I am also an orc, and a warrior. Not exactly Dibella material. The priestess looks displeased for a moment, as if I am just one more thing on her plate this morning, but then she visibly calms herself and smiles. 

“Welcome to the Temple of Dibella, traveler,” she says. “Have you come for enlightenment?” 

“No,” I say. “I’ve come for the Dragonborn.” 

Brand shoots me a look that is somewhere between desperation and contempt. 

The priestess’ frown deepens. “You are very welcome to him,” she says in a voice colder than a Windhelm night. “ _After_ he cleans the Temple.” 

“Certainly,” I agree. “I’ll even supervise the cleaning.” 

Brand groans. 

The priestess looks marginally pleased with the arrangement so I strike up a conversation with her as Brand picks up empty wine bottles, giant’s toes, hagraven feathers and other weird ingredients from the Temple. 

“When did he arrive?” I ask the priestess. 

“Last night,” she says with obvious distaste. 

I nod. So far, that fits into what I've managed to piece together. 

“If I may ask, who are you?” the priestess continues. 

“Borgakh the Steel-Heart.” I hold out a hand. 

After a moment, the priestess takes it. “And you are his…?”

“Bodyguard.” I shrug. “Friend.” 

The priestess raises an eyebrow. 

“He’s not normally like this,” I say, as if somehow that will make things better. 

Her eyebrow goes higher. 

“In fact, most days he is really quite tolerable,” I say with a slight smile. 

The priestess does not seem to find it as amusing as I do.

I sigh. “What did he do here last night?” 

“Trashed the place,” the priestess says archly. 

I stare at her and motion for her to go on. 

She pinches the bridge of her nose as she continues, as if the memory is particularly painful. “He barged in here singing something off-key at the top of his lungs. He was carrying a basket full of alchemical ingredients and had three or four bottles of wine tucked under his arm. Which he clearly didn’t need.” The priestess shoots Brand a disdainful look. Luckily, he’s still too busy cleaning to notice it. 

“I confronted him and told him to leave. He proceeded to flirt with my priestesses, disrupt our sacred service, throw ingredients around the room, drink all four bottles of wine plus every bottle he found in here, eat our food, and try to bash in our inner sanctum. I think the only thing that saved us was that he was so drunk he couldn’t get the words of his Shout out clearly.” 

I wince. 

The priestess nods gravely. “And then he passed out in the sacred pool, after attempting to brew his potion in it.” 

“Malacath help me,” I mutter. “This is worse than I thought.” 

“What did you say?” the priestess leans forward, eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Did he say anything last night that might clue you in to where he came from or how he got here?” 

The priestess is quiet for a moment, watching Brand as he sweeps the floor. “Now that you mention it, he did say something about Rorikstead. And a goat. But beyond that, I have no clue.” 

“Well, that is a start, at least. Thank you.” 

The priestess nods and goes to give Brand more instructions about how to clean out the sacred pool and replace the defiled water. Brand listens quietly, a little sullen, but strangely meek. Normally he’d be making wise-cracks and pushing all the priestess’ buttons. The longer I watch him the more obvious it is that he’s not himself. What did the strange man at the Bannered Mare do to him?

Brand finishes the rest of the chores in silence and looks relieved when the Temple is finally cleaned to the priestess’ standards. She bids us a chilly good-day, and makes sure that I have a firm grip on Brand’s arm before she lets us out of her sight.

As soon as we step outside, I turn to Brand. He is paler than usual, a little shaky, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“What in Malacath’s name were you thinking?” I shout. 

Brand winces and covers his ears. I let go of his arm so he can do it. 

“Not so loud, Borgakh, please.” 

“Alright then,” I say, a little quieter. “What in Malacath’s name were you _thinking_?” 

He looks up at me with the most desperate expression I’ve seen on him yet. “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” he says. “I don’t remember a thing.” 

“Do you remember me telling you not to accept drinks from strangers?” I ask. 

He gives me a half-shrug. 

“I had to cross half of Skyrim to find you, you know,” I grumble. 

“What?” Brand blinks at me, confused. 

“We are in Markarth, Brand,” I say slowly. 

“I...I know,” he says. “Didn’t we start here?” 

“No.” 

“No? Borgakh, what have I been doing?” 

“You tell me,” I say. “You got into a drinking contest in the Bannered Mare a few days ago and you’ve apparently been gallivanting across Skyrim on a drunken rampage ever since.” 

Brand groans. “Half of Skyrim?” 

“Whiterun to Markarth, from what I can tell. I only picked up a few of your tracks. Luckily they were enough to lead me here.” 

“Great. Just great.” Brand presses his arms across his stomach, looking pale and unsteady. “Not only have I humiliated myself in front of the priestesses of Dibella, but apparently half of Skyrim, too.” 

I cross my arms. “Well, on the bright side, you probably cannot humiliate yourself much further.” 

Brand opens his mouth as if to reply, but instead lurches forward and promptly loses the contents of his stomach all over the front steps of the Temple of Dibella. 

“I stand corrected,” I murmur as I step out of the way. 

He gives me the most heart-wrenching look before his eyes roll up in his head and he crumples. I lunge forward and catch him, scooping him up into my arms. His head lolls against my shoulder. 

“You know,” I say as I carry the unconscious Dragonborn down the stairs. “This would be a lot more romantic if you did not reek of ale.” 

* * *

“Rorikstead?” Brand groans as we top a rise in the traderoad and the hamlet appears on the plain in front of us. We’re riding our horses (I brought Brand’s along when I set out to find him) and the steady clop of their hooves accompanies our conversation. 

“That is what the Priestess of Dibella said.”

“Why Rorikstead?” 

“I don't know.” I shrug. “The priestess said you were ranting about a goat.” 

“A goat? Oh, Divines.” He shudders. 

“Surely there cannot be that many unholy things you can do with a goat.”

The look Brand gives me suggests that there are many unholy things you can do with a goat that I have not even considered. I shrug again, but I fight a smile. 

“You're enjoying this way too much,” Brand mutters. 

“You enjoyed your drinking contest. Now it is my turn,” I say.

Brand groans again. 

As soon as we descend into Rorikstead, we’re met by an angry farmer. “You!” He shouts and points as soon as he sees Brand. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again!” He abandons his field and runs up to us. We stop. 

“What have you got to say for yourself?” He runs up and yanks Brand out of the saddle. Brand could easily have kept his seat if he wanted to, but he lets the farmer pull him off his horse, controlling the move so that he lands (if not gracefully) on his feet. The farmer throws a punch as soon as Brand’s feet hit the ground. Brand lets it connect, but he rolls with it so that the blow isn’t so bad. It still rocks him back a step and leaves him massaging his jaw. 

“What was that for?” he demands. 

“My goat! You sold my goat to a giant! My Gleda. For some sacrifice for all I know.” 

Brand stands there blinking for a few seconds. “Giant? Goat?” he finally says. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know! The whole town saw you!” 

Brand holds up his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry...Ennis,” he says, looking half-surprised that he dredged the name up out of memory. I wonder if that means he dredged anything else about his drunken rampage to memory, but I don’t ask. 

“Oh, so you remember my name now, do you?” Ennis crosses his arms. “It’s not going to do you any good. We’re not friends.” 

“Ouch,” Brand mutters. 

Ennis scowls.

“Look, I, uh, I’m sorry,” Brand begins. 

“Sorry won’t get my goat back.” 

Brand sighs. I can tell he’s trying very hard not to Shout at this farmer right now. “Ok, ok. Right. Look, if I go get your goat back, will you tell me what happened here?” 

Ennis looks skeptical. “You mean you really don’t remember?” 

“No. I have no idea. Was I with anybody when I was here?” 

Ennis opens his mouth as if to answer, then shakes his head. “Goat first,” he says. “Then we’ll talk.” 

“Right. Goat first. But, uh, do you know where I took the goat?” 

Ennis throws his hands up. “How should I know? You grabbed her in a drunken stupor and carried her off while ranting about a giant named Grok or Grog or something like that. Find the nearest Giant camp and start there. You were so staggering drunk, I was surprised you even managed to keep your feet that night.” 

Brand closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Great. Nearest giant camp. Alright.” He opens his eyes. “We’ll be back with your goat shortly.” 

Ennis eyes me as if noticing me for the first time. Then he shakes a finger in Brand’s face. “You’d better be, elf, or the next time I see you in Rorikstead I’m calling the guard and letting you rethink your decisions in a dungeon.”

“Duly noted,” Brand says as Ennis walks away. 

Brand looks up at me and sighs. 

“Nearest giant camp?” he asks. 

“Way ahead of you, sirrah,” I drawl. He rolls his eyes at the dark elf honorific. I pull out a map of Skyrim. “Well, I have good and bad news,” I say. 

Brand hauls himself back up on his horse. “Hit me.” 

“Bad or good first?” 

He winces. “Bad.” 

“The bad news is, there are not any nearby giant camps marked on the map.” 

“And the good?” 

“The good news is, if you were as staggeringly drunk as Ennis suggested, then you couldn’t have gotten very far with the goat.” 

“Borgakh, I somehow managed to stagger my way drunk across half of Skyrim.” 

I clear my throat. “We start a search pattern,” I continue as if Brand didn’t say anything. “Start small, near Rorikstead, and expand the search until we find a goat, a giant, or some other clue.” 

He sighs. “Fine. Yes. Let’s go.” 

It doesn’t take us long to find the giant. Or the goat. In fact, they're only about two hours' ride out of Rorikstead. And thankfully, the goat’s still alive. It appears that Brand gave her away as a pet and not as dinner, because we find the giant in a little knoll out on the plains leading the goat by a rope tied around its neck. The giant seems content to stroll along at the goat’s pace as the two lumber across the plain. 

“Well, that’s a giant and a goat alright,” Brand says at my elbow where we crouch in the grass and watch. “But how do we know that’s Gleda?” 

“I’m going to say it is a safe bet that there are not too many other giants with goats around here.” 

“Let’s hope you’re right. Now, how do we get her back?” 

“That’s your prerogative,” I say. 

Brand glares at me. “Well, here goes nothing, then,” he says. “I’ll be the distraction. You get the goat.” 

“What?” 

But he is already up and away, walking straight toward the giant. I nearly jump up and run after him, but I cannot get the goat if I am spotted so I force myself to stay still in the grass and wait. Stealth is a roll that Brand is much more suited to, but I have found that it has its advantages sometimes. Like when you are trying to retrieve a goat from a giant. 

The giant does not seem at all concerned about Brand until he is nearly under his feet. Which is unusual. Giants tend to be hostile. But, then again, giants tend to live in camps with at least one other giant and a couple of mammoths. This giant appears to be a lone wanderer with a goat. Perhaps he is an outlier in more ways than one. Brand starts yelling at the giant, saying something about the lovely weather and how is it up there? 

The giant stops and stares down at Brand as if he is confused by the tiny little elf. He probably is. I highly doubt anybody Brand's size has ever stopped a giant for a chat before. I wonder if the giant can even understand him. I have never heard a giant speak before, so I do not know if they have their own language or if they speak the Imperial tongue. Either way, Brand's simple distraction proves effective and the giant is totally focused on him. Gleda wanders around behind the giant, cropping grass, wholly unconcerned with the whole scene.

I slip across the plain and grab the goat, sliding the rope off her neck. I tuck her under one arm and walk back to where we have our horses, securing her across the back of my horse. She’s surprisingly quiet about the whole thing and I wave to get Brand’s attention. He glances over at me without moving his head and waves a hand near his leg in a “go on” gesture. I tilt my head. The giant still watches Brand, leaning down to get a better look at the small elf. 

Brand waves a surreptitious hand at me again. I turn my horse and start riding back to camp. 

A few minutes later, Brand gallops up and reigns in beside me, grinning and breathless. 

“I take it you did not anger the giant,” I say. I’d been listening for any sign of aggression, keeping my horse’s pace slow, so that I would be within range to help if the giant got aggressive. 

“No, he was actually quite pleasant. I don’t know if he understood a word I said. I certainly couldn’t understand him, but we had a nice conversation, I think. I just wished him a good day and hopped on my horse before he realized his goat’s gone. But I think we’re in the clear.” Brand glances back over his shoulder. There is no angry giant chasing us. 

Gleda the goat bleats softly 

Brand give her a baleful look. “This is all your fault, you know,” he mutters. 

“Right, because the goat is the one who accepted a drinking contest and trashed half of Skyrim,” I say. 

“Shut up,” Brand grumbles. 

After we get his goat back to him, Ennis proves to be friendly enough and helpfully offers that Brand was indeed in town with another man. A guy who called himself Sam. Sam seemed to be the instigator of most of the trouble from what Ennis could tell and he even produced a half-destroyed letter that Brand had apparently left behind the night he was in Rorikstead. The letter seemed to offer some sort of apology or explanation for stealing Gleda, although most of it was obscured by spilled mead. The only part that was clear said something about repaying Ysolda in Whiterun. 

“Oh Divines,” Brand murmured. “Not Whiterun.” 

“Yes, Whiterun. That’s where you started,” I remind him. 

He groans. “We’re moving after this. I’m changing my name and never showing my face in Skyrim again.

“You are Dragonborn. I don’t think you are allowed to do that,” I say. 

“I’m the Dragonborn. I can do whatever the hell I want,” he says as he mounts his horse. “But first, we’re going to Whiterun.” 

“Whatever you say, sirrah,” I salute him. 

“Borgakh.” He gives me a disapproving look. 

“Hm?” 

“Don’t patronize me.” 

“Never.” 

He sighs and throws his hands up. 

I grin as we start the journey back to our home city. Something tells me there’s a lot more to this story than either of us are aware of yet. But first, we’ve got to find Ysolda. 

And maybe soothe the Dragonborn’s ego on the way. 


	8. Most Days He Is Tolerable (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after taking me longer to write than anticipated, I'm rather pleased with the way this adventure ended up. I hope that you find it worth the wait ;)

**Brand**

I rein my horse in on the plain outside Whiterun, far enough from the city gates not to be recognized yet. My stomach twists and my mouth feels suddenly dry. I really, really don’t want to face whatever I did in my own home city. 

Borgakh stops beside me. “What are you doing?” 

I sigh. “Well, if Rorikstead is any indication, then I might not get a warm welcome here.” 

“Let me guess, you do not remember what you did here either.” 

“Maybe you…?” 

Borgakh shakes her head. “All I know is that I left you drinking with a stranger in the Bannered Mare and when I get back, you're gone. Adrianne was the one who told me she saw you leave Whiterun.”

“Right. Then it might be more advantageous to s --” 

“Oh, no,” she interrupts. “I am not going in and taking responsibility for whatever you did that night.” 

I stare at her with my mouth open for a second. She thinks I was going to send her in my place? While it is a tempting proposition, Borgakh would never let me get away with it without threatening to separate my head from my shoulders.

“I was going to say ‘sneak in,’” I finish wryly. 

Borgakh glares at me. 

I hold my hands up. 

She looks back up at the city. “That is fair,” she says. 

My mouth drops open for the second time. “You agree?” 

She grins and it’s terrifying, her tusks accentuating the expression. “I agree that  _ you  _ should sneak in. I am going to ride up to the gate and walk inside like a respectable citizen.” 

I wave a hand at her. “Fine, fine.” 

She reaches over and tugs the reins out of my grasp. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Well, I left with your horse. It would be strange if I returned without him, yes?” 

I sigh.

“You _do_ want to keep up the illusion that you are not here, do you not?” 

I nod. 

“So, I need your horse.” She says all of this way too gleefully. 

With a scowl, I slide off the horse, but Borgakh is right, as usual. If she rides up to the stable with my empty horse in tow, she can claim she didn’t find me. Or, at the very least, didn’t return with me. If she rides up without my horse, she has to fabricate a bigger lie about finding me and not bringing me home, or losing my horse somewhere in the wilderness. And for all of Borgakh’s good qualities, lying isn’t one of them. Which is a good thing, normally. 

Borgakh smiles down at me and nudges her horse forward, leading mine in tow. “See you back at Breezehome, Dragonborn!” she calls over her shoulder. 

I start walking. 

It’s not difficult to sneak into Whiterun. I suppose that should say something about the state of security in my home city, but, then again, I highly doubt most sneaks employ whirlwind sprint to sneak in. A quick whisper as I jump throws me to the top of the wall and I drop lightly down on the other side, behind Warmaiden’s. If there’s anybody I can trust to be discreet about my sudden appearance after a night of...whatever the heck I did here...it’s Adrianne. Plus, she's the one who saw me leave, so maybe she knows a little something about what went down. 

I slip up to the smelter and lean against the back of it, out of sight of the road. I can hear Adrianne at her forge, hammering away. I lean around the edge of the smelter and call out to her, imbuing my voice with a little of the Thu’um so that it will carry over the sound of her hammer without me having to yell. 

“Adrianne!” 

She looks up sharply, one eyebrow raised. Then her mouth turns down, not quite a scowl, but definitely a frown. I swallow. She takes her time hammering out her piece and then thrusts it back into the coals and walks over to me. 

“I see you finally made it back, Dragonborn,” she says. 

I clear my throat. “Yes.” 

She stares at me, waiting. 

“Can you...did I…how bad was it?” 

“How bad?” 

I rub the back of my neck. “Did I do anything...strange...here in the last few days? Like steal someone’s cow? Or set fire to the Eldergleam or anything?” 

Adrianne puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head. “No.” She looks amused. “No, nothing like that. Why?” 

I feel relief flood me like a cool river. “Thank the Eight,” I murmur. 

“You did have a pretty rowdy time a few nights ago, though,” Adrianne says in a knowing tone. 

I feel my stomach clench up again. 

“Oh, no. I didn’t...make anybody mad at me, did I?” 

Adrianne smirks. “You don’t remember?” 

I shake my head, not sure at all that I want Adrianne to remind me. 

“You were galavanting through the city with some guy called Sam, announcing how you were going to get married soon.” 

I feel my ears flush red. “Married?” my voice goes much higher than I intend. I clear my throat. I dread the answer, but I have to ask. “To Sam?” 

Adrianne laughs. "No, to some woman. You wouldn’t say her name, but you bought a wedding ring from Ysolda on credit. She’s frustrated that you haven’t paid her back for it yet. Seeing as how you are the Dragonborn and normally have such deep pockets.” 

“Um, right, yes, well, I guess I should go take care of that. But nothing else? Nothing crazy? I didn’t make anybody want to kill me?” 

“Not that I know of." 

I put my hands on Adrianne's shoulders and look her in the eye. “Thank you. “

She looks a little confused, but she nods. “Anytime, Brand.”

I slip into the backstreets of Whiterun and work my way toward the market as Adrianne resumes her hammering. 

I don’t get very far before I run into Borgakh. She leans up against the side of our house, arms crossed. Although she has her helm off, she’s still in the rest of her armor and she looks intimidating and stern. Her eyes sparkle as she catches sight of me and she grins. 

I pause. I’m trapped. There’s no way I can get to the market, where Ysolda is usually found, without passing Borgakh, or very obviously turning around and going a different direction. I walk up to her. 

“Well, I don’t think you managed to make off with a goat this time,” Borgakh says. 

“That’s a relief.” I’m halfway serious. 

“I did a brief walkthrough and no one ran up to me asking where you were so they could ring your neck, so I think you might be safe.” 

“Good, good.” I nod. “I talked to Adrianne and she said I bought a...wedding ring...off of Ysolda but didn’t pay her for it yet.” 

Borgakh’s eyebrows go up and there’s something odd in her expression that I can’t quite place. Jealousy? 

“A wedding ring?” Her tone is carefully neutral. 

“Apparently.” 

“And just who were you planning on giving the ring to, Brand?” 

I hold up my hands. “Look, this is just like the goat thing! I have no idea!” 

Borgakh sighs and shakes her head. “This is why you shouldn’t drink with strangers.” 

I glare at her, but I don’t answer.

* * *

“You mean you can’t even remember!?” Ysolda asks incredulously. She sits on the edge of the well in the middle of Whiterun. 

A few passerby give us some odd looks. I hold my hands up. “Not so loud. But no, I don’t remember.” 

Ysolda gives me an annoyed look, but she lowers her voice. “You came to me a few nights ago drunk as a loon and told me that you were getting married and needed a ring, but you didn’t have the money on you right then. So I gave you one of my best pieces with the promise that you’d pay me back.” 

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This was only getting worse. Who was I supposed to marry? Did they know we were getting married? Did they even exist, or had I made the whole thing up? But, if I made it up, where was the ring Ysolda gave me? I certainly didn’t have it on my person now. “Did I mention who I was going to marry?” I ask. 

Ysolda shakes her head. “No, but you did say that you met at Witchmist Grove. It sounded really romantic. You said something about fireflies and true love and how you were really excited.” 

I fight the urge to pull a face. Ysolda sounds like she really believed I’d been about to get married. In Witchmist Grove? I don’t even know where that is. 

“Ysolda, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not actually getting married.” 

Ysolda’s eyes go wide. “But it sounded so real!” 

“You said it yourself, I was drunk as a loon.” 

“Have you let your bride to be know this?” Ysolda crosses her arms.

“I’m not even sure who the bride to be is!” I protest. 

“You forgot your own fiance? Brand, you’re a horrible human being!” 

More people stare. I grit my teeth. “Technically, I’m an elf,” I say. 

Ysolda glares at me. 

I sigh. “Look, I get it. It’s a mess. Trust me, I know. I’ve been trying to sort it all out for the last few days. So, anyway, how much do I owe you for the ring?” 

Ysolda crosses her arms. “Well, if you’re not actually getting married, I’d rather have the ring back than the septims. Seeing as how that was one of my best items. And besides, you have no use for it anymore.” 

“Ysolda, I don’t have the ring anymore!” 

“I suggest you start looking then. Maybe in Witchmist Grove. Start with the heartbroken young lady.” 

I sigh again. But there’ll be no convincing Ysolda otherwise. Once she’s made up her mind, you can’t change it. 

“Alright. I’ll bring you the ring.” 

“You’d better, Dragonborn, or I’ll charge you double the price.”

* * *

“I know that I probably have a very different idea of romantic than a wood elf,” Borgakh says with a straight face. “But even I have to pass on this one.” 

“I hate to agree with you, but I’m afraid I have to.” I grimace. We’re standing outside of Witchmist Grove, about a day’s ride out of Windhelm and it looks like the last place to find a marriageable girl. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I told Ysolda a story about true love and fireflies. The only thing in the grove is a cabin, a shoddy thing with missing boards. There’s a fence made of spikes sticking out of the ground. Severed animal heads decorate the fence, some of them still dripping blood. Which means they’re fresh. Which means that whoever lives here chops animals and impales them on spikes in their free time.

Probably to keep people away. And fuel their dark magic rituals.

Borgakh looks over at me, a wry smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “Very romantic, Brand. Who do you think you picked up here, a necromancer?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous! Even drunk I wouldn’t go for one of those crazy mages.” 

Borgakh snickers. “You did steal a goat, if you’ll remember.” 

“Not to marry it!” 

“How do we know?” 

I shudder. Technically, we don’t. By the Eight, if I live this down, I’m never going drinking again.

“Well, might as well go break your blushing bride’s heart, Dragonborn,” Borgakh says. “Get it over with.” She nudges me in the ribcage with her elbow. 

“You shut up,” I growl. But I stalk through the grass toward the cabin anyway. 

I only get halfway there before I see movement in the doorway. A hunched figure shuffles forward and I feel my stomach drop into my boots. That’s not what I think it is, I hope. Oh, Oblivion...it is.

A hagraven appears in the doorway, shoulders bowed, head tilted like a bird’s, beady eyes staring me down. Then her lips part in what I think is supposed to be a smile, but it looks sickly and strange in her pinched face. Her breathing is loud and ragged, grating on my nerves. 

“Darling!” she cries. “I’ve been waiting on you to return, to consummate our love!” 

I hear a snicker behind me and then Borgakh bursts into loud laughter. I very pointedly do not turn around to look at her. My ears burn and I clench my hands into fists at my side. 

“Who is that!?” The hagraven’s face twists in rage and she points angrily at Borgakh.

“Uh…” I can’t think of a single thing to say. My mind is completely blank and I feel like the world is turning around me in slow-motion while I’m frozen in this awful tableau. I was going to marry a hagraven?! How drunk was I?

Borgakh walks up to stand beside me, holding her warhammer casually in front of her. She rests the hammer against the ground and leans on it, one hand on her hip. “My name is Borgakh the Steel-Heart. I’m his girlfriend,” she says. 

I glare daggers at Borgakh. 

“Girlfriend!” The hagraven puffs up, the feathers along her arms standing on end. Then her venomous gaze turns on me. “You lied!” she hisses. 

“I didn’t--” 

“You said there was no other!” 

“Hang on, I--” 

“You said Moira was the only one!” she shrieks. “You said you loved Moira!” She launches herself off the porch at me. 

I’m so stunned by the whole turn of events that I barely have my hand on my sword before she’s right in my face. Or would have been had she not run smack into Borgakh’s warhammer. The hagraven screams as the hammer smashes bone, but her unnatural endurance and reflexes save her life. She reverses her lunge at the last second and while she takes a hit, it’s not mortal. 

She flies back and skids in the dirt, her eyes burning angry holes into me. Blood drips from her now-shattered nose and she holds one arm in close, as if it might be broken. “You die!” She raises her hand, fingers crooked and curled. A jet of flame flies out of her fingertips. 

“Fo Krah!” I Shout, meeting the fire with ice. The two elements dissipate in a cloud of steam. I draw my enchanted glass blade as Borgakh and I instinctively split up to flank the hagraven. This also makes us harder targets because the hagraven either has to choose one of us and put her back to the other or try to split her attention between us. 

She chooses me. 

Of course she does. 

“Liar!” she screams and races toward me. Even with my own heightened reflexes, I’m still surprised at how fast she can move when she wants to. 

“Maybe we can talk this out?” I suggest as I throw up my sword and block a swing from her claws. By the Eight, but she’s strong. Her swing rattles my sword arm. I push her back. 

“No talking. Only fighting now.” 

“So, it would be a bad time to ask for that ring back, huh?” 

She shrieks and flies at me, hand curled, a spell glowing in her palm. Fire washes over me. 

“Mul Qah Diiv!” I Shout again. Ethereal dragon scales rise up over my torso and deflect the flame, although I still feel it singe some of my clothing and skin. I wince. 

“Cheat!” the hagraven shouts. “Liar! You die!” 

I see Borgakh rise up behind her. 

The hagraven must sense something, because she leaps to the side, barely rolling out of the way of the heavy swing of Borgakh’s hammer. The hagraven comes to her feet beside me, hissing and spitting. She lashes out with her claws again. This time, I throw up my forearm and block her swing. Claws clash with scales and she looks surprised when she can’t cut through me. She looks even more surprised when my enchanted blade sinks into her stomach and lightning pulses through her body. She convulses once, twice, then collapses. I pull my sword out of her twitching corpse.

Borgakh lowers her warhammer. 

“Well --” she begins. 

“Don’t say it,” I snarl. 

The ring doesn’t take long to find.

* * *

Borgakh stands in front of a glowing portal in the bottom of Morvunskar, a grin splitting her features. Dead necromancers and mages lie at her feet. I shuck the last corpse off my blade and look over at her. 

She gestures at the portal, bloody warhammer and all. 

I sigh. “Might as well. Let’s get this over with.” 

After returning the ring to Ysolda, she explained that I’d told her I was getting married in Morvunskar, which, as it turns out, is a Nordic tomb. A freaking tomb. Nobody gets married in a tomb. Ok, I take that back, necromancers probably do...I shudder and abandon that line of thought and follow Borgakh through the portal.

I hardly expect what I find on the other side.

Instead of exiting in a dungeon or another tomb or some nasty, monster-infested place, we walk into a pleasant grove full of trees. A rippling stream runs through the grove, sending up puffs of mist here and there. A wooden path leads across the water to an open space with a long table running down the center. Laughing people fill the table, eating and drinking and having a good time. Magical lights strung up along the edges of the grove provide soft, warm light. 

A man in a black robe stands beside the table, talking to one of the party-goers. 

As soon as I see him, I remember him. 

I stride forward. “Sam!” I grab him by his shoulder and spin him around. “Sam Guevenne!” 

He looks only mildly surprised to be accosted by an elf in bloodied armor and his equally bloodied orc companion, then his eyes light up and he offers me a warm smile.

“Brand! I was wondering when you’d finally show up to your own wedding!” 

“What?” 

“I see you found a better candidate than that hagraven!” he laughs and raises the tankard in his hand toward Borgakh. 

“This is _not_ a wedding!” I shout. “No one is getting married. What is this place? Who are you? And why in Oblivion did you drag me across half of Skyrim making a mess out of everything?” 

Sam takes my tirade with a lazy smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Now, now, there’s no need to get angry, Dragonborn,” he says. His form blurs and stretches, growing taller, broader. His skin darkens and becomes red and his eyes glow crimson as his clothes turn into a suit of daedric armor. Long horns curl out of his dark hair. He bows. “Allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Sanguine, daedric prince of debauchery, parties, and drunken adventures.” 

I don’t answer. 

“Surprised, Dragonborn?”

I hear something behind me that sounds like Borgakh suppressing a snicker. Sanguine gives her a smile over the top of my head. It’s times like these that I sincerely wish I was taller. Sanguine looks back at me. 

“I must admit, you’ve been the most fun drinking partner in a long time. Most people don’t have the stomach to stand up to my wine, much less to run around Skyrim with me.” 

“I don’t appreciate your pranks, Sanguine.”

“Pranks?” Sanguine puts a hand to his chest, as if offended. “Never. I don’t pull pranks, Dragonborn. I breathe life into the dull humdrum of the mundane.” 

Borgakh holds in another laugh. 

I cross my arms. “I’m hardly mundane, though. Why me?” 

“Because I knew you’d be up to the task.” Sanguine winks at me. 

I scowl. 

“Don’t take it so hard, Brand,” he smiles. “After all, you were good for some laughs and in the end, no harm done.” 

“That hagraven tried to kill me! I got punched in the face by a farmer, and chewed out by the priestess of Dibella, and ended up running all over the place trying to fix your mistakes!” 

Sanguine shakes his head. “Ah, ah, ah, Dragonborn. They weren’t my mistakes. After all, you played along quite nicely. In the future, you’d do well to listen to the advice of your friend here and not drink with strangers.” 

“How do you--?” Borgakh begins. 

“Nevermind that. Look, it wasn’t all for a loss. Here.” He holds out his hand and a carved wooden staff materializes in it. The top of the staff looks like an intricate rose and there are thorns springing out from the wood on either side. He hands the staff to me. 

I eye it doubtfully. 

“Take it. No strings attached. But you might find it helpful, in a pinch, to summon one of my...rowdier friends...to help you dispatch your enemies.” Sanguine winks again. 

Despite the tiny voice in the back of my head (that sounds a lot like Borgakh, come to think of it) telling me not to accept a gift from a Daedra, I reach out and take the staff. A surge of power flows through my hand when I do and it feels...amazing. I sway slightly. Sanguine grins. Borgakh puts a steadying hand on my shoulder. And then the moment passes and we’re all just normal again. 

“Thank you, Dragonborn, for a night of fun I know I won’t soon forget!” Sanguine says. “Now, let me transport you somewhere more convenient. After all, it’s the least I can do!” He waves his hand and the grove disappears. I feel a lurch in my stomach as the world blurs and then suddenly we’re standing in front of the gates of Whiterun again and dusk is falling on the plains. A wide-eyed gate guard stares at us through the eye slits in his helmet. 

I wave. He clears his throat and looks away. 

Borgakh stretches, exaggerating a yawn. “Well, I for one, think I am going to call it a day after all that excitement.” She starts walking through the gates. 

“Hey, Borgakh!” I call out. 

She stops and turns, looking at me with an eyebrow raised. 

“Back there, in the grove, when you called yourself my girlfriend…?” I trail off. 

She smiles and her eyes are dancing. “Don’t read too much into it, Brand,” she says. “I just wanted to make the hagraven mad.” Then she turns and starts walking again. 

Behind her, I smile and follow her through the gate. 

_ Sure, you did Borgakh. Sure you did. _


	9. "The Dragonborn Doesn't Get Sick"

**Borgakh**

_Investigate Redwater Den_ gets added to our list of tasks and bounties after a scruffy Breton approaches us on the road outside Riften peddling a new strain of skooma more powerful than “that Khajiiti syrup.” Brand feigns interest and purchases a bottle, despite my protests that we have more tasks than we can keep up with back in Whiterun, as evidenced by the overflowing cabinet in the living room where Brand stuffs all the bounties, letters, death threats, and requests. 

Brand points out that we are already in the wilds anyway, so we might as well take a day or two and investigate. And so we find ourselves crouched in the trees outside a dilapidated shack, watching the guard rotation as Brand twirls the bottle of Redwater Skooma in one hand.

“My septims are on vampires,” he mutters. 

I watch the guards a little longer. They are a lazy bunch, barely more than lookouts, and, I wager, partakers of their own product.

“Vampires? How do you figure that? It could be a very enterprising Khajiit.” 

Brand frowns. “Could be, but the stuff in this bottle is pretty vile. I did some alchemical tests on it last night” (he shushes my protests that he should have been sleeping) “and I think it’s carrying more than a few diseases. The Khajiit might be schemers, but they want live customers. Vampires, however...” he trails off with a shrug. 

I grimace. “Free blood supply.” 

“Exactly.” Brand fiddles with his armor and slips out of his bracers and helm. He hands them to me. 

“What are you doing?” I ask as he scrubs dirt on his face. 

He grins. “Going in. What else?” 

“You’re going to walk in there unarmored?” I raise an incredulous eyebrow. 

“I’m not _unarmored_ . Just _less_ armored. I’ll be more believable that way. I’m gonna go ask for some skooma.” 

I must look more offended than I think because Brand stifles laughter behind his hand. 

“I’m not going to _partake_ , Borgakh. By the Eight. It’s a ruse.” 

“I am aware.” I sniff. 

“Sure, sure.” Brand uncorks the skooma bottle and pours the contents out on the ground. Then he puts the empty bottle at his belt, with the pair of twin daggers he opted for on this mission instead of his sword. Though they look like plain elvish quicksilver, the short blades are enchanted with some heavy stamina and health drains. I’ve seen him fell bears with them before. “Alright, give me half an hour. If the rest of the den is anything like these guys, I should be in and out easy. If I’m not back before then...well, you know what to do.” 

He winks and slips off through the undergrowth. 

I shake my head and watch as he walks up to the guards. After a comical display with the empty skooma bottle, the guards let him inside what remains of the shack. 

I start counting.

* * *

I give Brand twenty-five minutes. 

Maybe twenty. 

Then I follow. 

For decorum’s sake, I leave my warhammer with our horses and take Brand’s enchanted glass blade instead. The guards did not glance twice at Brand’s daggers, but I figure they might object to a warhammer. The guards do not even react until I am practically standing inside the shack. Only then do they seem to realize that a fully-armored orc warrior is asking them for entrance to their den. They seem much more intimidated by me than by Brand (even though I did leave my helm behind) and there is some murmured deliberation between the two of them before one of them points at my sword. 

“You’re going to have to --” 

“I am taking it with me,” I snap. The guard’s eyes go wide and he glances over at his companion. He shrugs. Both guards stare at each other cluelessly, then at me. I cross my arms and give them my most intimidating scowl. 

“Ok,” one of the guards finally relents. “Just keep that thing sheathed, got it? You pull it and we’ll have to get rough.” 

I tilt my head, showing off my tusks. “You are welcome to try.” 

The guards glance at each other again, but they lead me over to a trap door and open it up for me. I descend the short ladder inside with a quick thanks. 

A dirt hallway at the bottom of the ladder leads me to the den proper. If the dirt and wooden room can even be called a den. It is barely more than a cave full of strange red mist. My lip curls. 

To my left, a bar stretches across the wall, with iron bars running from counter to ceiling, forming a cage for the dealer inside. Whether it is for her safety or to keep addicts from stealing product, I am not certain. But from the sounds of coughing and groaning coming from the private booths opposite the bar, I doubt most of the patrons have the wherewithal to steal anything. It seems Brand’s analysis of the skooma might be more accurate than we realized. 

Besides the dealer, there’s one other employee in the den -- a dunmer attendant in an apron -- and another thug-type leaning against the wall by the bar. Nord, probably. All three of them look bored. 

I do not see the Dragonborn anywhere. 

I walk up to the bar. The dealer comes over to the small slot in her cage and leans on the counter. I notice a door behind her that, presumably, leads to administrative or living quarters.

“Can I help you?” the dealer asks. 

“I am looking for an elf,” I say. “Came in here about half an hour ago? About this tall?” I hold my hand up around shoulder height. 

The dealer gives me a calculating look, then slowly shakes her head. “I have not seen an elf all day. A couple of Khajiit, a Redguard, a Nord, and two Imperials. No elves. Except for Jhamer, there.” She points at the attendant. 

“I’m looking for a bosmer, not a dunmer.”

She crosses her arms and pouts at me. “I told you, I haven’t seen any elves. Now, are you buying or not?” 

I look around the room. There’s no sign of Brand, unless he’s in one of the booths down the hall. But to look, I’ll need a ruse. I sigh. 

"I'm buying.” 

“Forty septims,” the dealer quips. 

I raise an eyebrow. That’s a steep price for a bottle of useless syrup. But, as Brand is fond of reminding me, he has an almost endless supply of coin. Forty septims is not much to Skyrim’s enigmatic Dragonborn, and coincidentally, his friends. I pull the coin out of the pouch at my belt and lay it out on the table. 

The dealer makes a show of counting it before she hands me a small vial of red liquid. “Booths are provided for your imbibing pleasure.” She points toward the back wall. “We only ask that you refrain from pulling weapons or making a mess.” 

“Of course.” 

She smiles at me and there’s something almost malicious behind it, but I shake off the feeling and walk down the hall. I glance into the booths as I go, pretending to search for a suitably empty one. 

I pass an Imperial in his legate’s armor, a Khajiit rolling on the floor in fits of mirth, a woman in farmer’s garb staring blankly at the wall, and a suspiciously still face-down Redguard. In fact, I’m quite certain the poor fellow is dead. 

I still do not find Brand. 

Part of me is relieved that he is not strung out in a booth, but the other part of me is concerned that I somehow missed him. I settle into the last booth in the hall so that it affords me a good view of the hallway and the bar. And wait. 

I do not have to wait long before the attendant comes to investigate the Redguard in the booth next to mine. He calls the thug over and I lean back against the wall, eyes closed, so I can listen while appearing to be under the ecstatic influence of my bottle of Redwater Skooma. 

“Another one, Jhamer? Good job. What is this, the fourth one this week?” 

Jhamer responds in a smooth voice. “I believe so, Ragnard. Help me get him to the pit, will you?” 

“Sure.” 

There’s some grunting and sounds of exertion, and then Jhamer and Ragnard leave the booth with the dead man between them. I peek around the edge of my booth. They are careful with the way they carry him, half-propped on Ragnard’s shoulder so that it looks like they’re only supporting an unconscious patron. They bring him past the bar at the end of the hall and disappear through the door beside it. I glance around. The dealer is busy mixing something at the other end of the bar and is not looking at the booths. Now is my chance. 

I leave the vial of skooma in the booth and sneak down the hallway, sticking to the shadows. If any of the other patrons notice me, they are too strung out to comment. The dealer does not turn around. I thank Malacath for this unnatural good luck (and ask forgiveness for sneaking around) and slip up to the door Jahmer and Ragnard disappeared through. I test the knob and smile. I am in luck. It is unlocked. 

In moments, I am inside. 

Brand was right about the den. As soon as I cross the threshold, I find myself in an intricate cave system that reeks of blood. Vampires. I draw Brand’s enchanted blade off my back and ready a spell of ice spikes in my other hand. 

Jhamer gets the spike in his chest a few moments later. He rounds the corner, returning, I guess, from “the pit” and takes the spike before he can get much more than an “oh” of surprise past his lips. I feel bad for him, but when he staggers to the floor and dissolves into a pile of ash, I feel less guilty. A thrall. No wonder. 

Ragnard comes at me a moment later with a Nordic battlecry. I whirl and block the down thrust of his axe with Brand’s blade. Lightning flickers between us. I growl.

“I knew you would be trouble, orc!” Ragnard snarls. 

“Where’s the Dragonborn?” I demand. 

“You mean that little wood elf?” Ragnard cackles. “He’s long gone. Venarus has him down in the dungeon. Probably sucking his blood as we speak. For being Dragonborn, he certainly didn’t put up much of a fight! In fact, he --” 

Ragnard never finishes his sentence as the stroke of my sword relieves him of his head. Unlike Jhamer, he doesn’t disintegrate when he dies and his blood spatters my armor. I spit in disgust and step over his body, going deeper into the caves. 

After fighting a few more vampires and thralls, I end up in a hallway that looks more like a Nordic tomb than a cave. I can hear the sound of shouting and blades ringing at the end of the hall. 

“Not so clever now, are you Dragonborn!” someone taunts. 

I hear a grunt that I recognize immediately as Brand. 

I start running.

“I know how your powers work! You can’t Shout again for another few minutes. So all I have to do is wear you down, little elf.” 

There’s a horrific clash of steal and Brand yelps, then a scuffle and a splash. 

The other voice laughs. “Pity you aren’t part fish, Dragonborn!” 

I round the corner to see a black robed Vampire forcefully shoving Brand into a pool of what looks like blood with a fountain in the center. The vampire, probably Venarus, has one of Brand’s arms twisted behind his back and uses his greater weight to hold Brand’s head underwater. Brand thrashes, but he cannot break the vampire’s hold. I rush forward, preparing a swing. 

Just then, there’s a muffled Shout from inside the pool. Brand and Venarus are blasted backwards as the water in the pool jets upward. Crimson rain spatters the room. Brand and Venarus split mid-air and tumble across the room in opposite directions. Brand rolls up against the far wall, coughing and gasping. Venarus, unlucky bastard, falls nearly at my feet. I descend on him in a rage. He does not even have a chance. 

Venarus soon lies in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood, ice spikes decorating him from chest to groin. Even the unnatural strength of the vampires is no match for an enraged orc. Especially when that enraged orc was a surprise. 

A weak cough from behind me grounds me and subdues my rage. I rush over to Brand’s side. He is propped on one elbow, coughing up reddish liquid into a sizeable puddle on the floor. He looks up as I walk over and offer him a hand. I haul him to his feet. 

“It will be easy, hm?” I raise an eyebrow. 

Brand groans. 

“Seems the rest of the den was not as stoned as you thought.” 

“Seems like it,” he agrees quietly. I glance at his belt and notice that his daggers are gone. A quick search shows them glinting on the floor near the blood pool. I walk over and pick them up, making sure to avoid Venarus’ body on the way. “Seems you were right about the vampires though.” I walk back and hand Brand his blades. 

He takes them without comment -- not even a gloating “I told you so.” He looks miserable. 

“Are you alright?” I ask. 

He grimaces. “Nothing that a bath won’t solve. Swallowed a lot of that blood though. I think I’m going to be sick.” 

I step back slightly. 

He staggers forward and braces himself on the wall. For the second time, I watch the Dragonborn turn himself inside out. But this time, it is not his fault. I step up and rub his back as the retching subsides. His vomit is thick with blood. Whatever he swallowed in there cannot be good for him. Brand wipes a shaky hand across the back of his mouth and straightens up, looking haggard. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” he suggests weakly. 

"No argument there." 

* * *

The true effects of the blood pool surface a few days later. 

Brand picked up a few journals while he was in the den, and we glean enough information from them to learn that the blood pool was created by the murder of a contingent of priests of Arkay many years ago. Venarus Vulpis, enterprising vampire, stumbled across the pool quite by accident and learned of its disease-ridden properties. After experimenting with skooma and realizing that he had a way to trap addicts for food, he began luring Skyrim’s less fortunate to their deaths in his den. 

“Brand, aren’t you worried about the blood pool?” I ask as we sit beside the campfire a few nights later. We are about three days out from Whiterun still and Brand looks more and more exhausted and pale the farther we travel. 

“Not really,” he shrugs. I am pretty sure the motion hides a shiver. “After all, I’m a wood elf. And the Dragonborn.” 

I tilt my head. 

“Naturally resistant to disease, remember?” 

“Oh, of course.” 

“I haven’t been sick in...well, since ever. The Dragonborn doesn't get sick.” 

“But I also be the Dragonborn hasn't been dipped in a blood pool before.” 

“Well, no.” He shivers again and looks away, as if uncertain. He hides the motion by taking a large spoonful of soup out of his bowl. I tactfully ignore the fact that he ends up spilling some of it on himself. So does he. 

“You know, I was thinking,” I say, “we’re not so far from Ivarstead. Perhaps we could ride there tomorrow and stay at the inn before we go home.” 

“Why’s that?” Brand watches me with suspiciously bright eyes over his bowl. 

“No reason,” I shrug. “Just thought it would be nice after being out in the wilds for a few weeks.” 

Brand is quiet for a minute. He sniffs. “That’s out of our way, though.” 

“By a little bit.” 

“We’ll be fine, Borgakh. We’re nearly back to Whiterun anyway.” He slides a little closer to the fire. I think he is hoping I will not notice, but Brand is so close to the fire now that I fear he might singe his clothes. He fastidiously keeps his attention on his soup. 

“Are you cold?” I ask. 

His head snaps up and he meets me with a guilty expression before it melts into a half-smile. “Maybe a little,” he admits. 

“You want me to get you the extra blanket?” 

“No need to trouble yourself.” 

“Brand,” I admonish him as I stand up and walk over to my horse. He very meekly lets me get the extra blanket and drape it over his shoulders, settling him at a safer distance from the fire.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask. 

“Of course I’m alright. It’s just these Skyrim nights. So cold.” 

“We’re barely out of the Rift. I think it’s the warmest night I have ever felt in Skyrim.” 

“Well, even a cold night in Valenwood is warmer than a warm night here,” Brand says defensively. 

I nod, but I watch Brand closely as the night wears on. He doesn’t finish his dinner and he keeps shivering, even long after I bundle him into both our cloaks as well. After he falls asleep, I lay a hand on his forehead and am alarmed by how hot he feels. I am no apothick, but I know enough to know that Brand is displaying the classic symptoms of Bone Break Fever at the very least. 

I’m not sure the Dragonborn is as immune to the blood pool as he thinks he is.

* * *

The next morning, Brand is even worse. He shivers so hard I fear he might rattle himself to pieces and his fingers are swollen at the joints and so stiff he can barely hold a cup. Ataxia, for sure. I have to help him drink the concoction I brew for him. It is an old remedy Sharamph often brewed back at the camp -- a mix of health, stamina, and cure disease herbs and potions that resolves all but the worst fevers and aches. 

After I get the mixture into him, Brand perks up a little bit, but there is now a wet sound in his chest when he breathes in that I do not like. Rattles? How many diseases can one person get from the blood pool?

“Brand, we are going to Ivarstead,” I say as I pack our camp and load the horses. Brand is huddled underneath his pile of blankets, looking miserable. 

“W-why?” His teeth chatter so hard, his words come out in stutters. 

“By Malacath, because you’re sick, that’s why!” 

Brand gets that look on his face that means he’s about to argue my point to Oblivion and back. I almost laugh at him, but I manage to stifle it. It is hardly convincing when he can barely sit up. With all the dignity he can muster, he draws himself up and insists “I’m fine.” Although it comes out sounding more like “I’b fibe.” 

I shake my head. “You are clearly _not_ fine.” 

“I j-just need a little s-sleep, that’s all,” he says. 

“Says the one who barely slept last night.” 

“How --?” 

“I’m observant. Now quit arguing. We’re going to Ivarstead.” 

“B-but --” 

“No buts! You need a healer! And a bed. And another bath.” 

He hauls himself upright and scowls, but the expression is mitigated by the fact that he cannot stand steady. “Says who? I’m fine, B-borgakh, honest.” 

I stop and stare at him, hands on my hips. “Brand, what in all of Mundus makes you think you’re fine? It’s obvious you have a fever, you can hardly stand up, your hands are so swollen you can’t hold anything, and you sound like a draugr when you breathe. Why do you keep insisting that you are fine?” 

He looks almost as if I physically hit him, blinking in surprise, his knees suddenly wobbly. “Because…” he trails off, as if he does not actually have an answer for me. “I’m the Dragonborn,” he finally says, weakly. 

“You are sick.” 

“But the Dragonborn --”

“Is _resistant_ to disease. Not immune.” 

He looks unsettled at this, and folds his arms over his stomach, hunching down and seeming to shrink even further. Right now he looks barely more than a child and I feel the sudden urge to scoop him up in my arms and hold him. I shake my head. That would be very...undignified. Instead, I walk over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. If I can just coax him to rest, I think he will be alright. “Brand, I really think --” 

Brand staggers under my hand. “Oh, gods,” he mumbles and lurches forward as his stomach rejects the potions I gave him this morning. He heaves and ends up on his knees, pale and shaky as the last of his food makes an unwelcome reappearance. 

I sigh and kneel beside him. 

“Do you still think you’re fine?” I ask

He groans and half-collapses on me. His eyes are squeezed shut and his breathing comes fast and shallow, his head heavy and warm on my shoulder. I pick him up and carry him over to my horse. Carrying the Dragonborn is beginning to become something of a habit. But I find myself more worried than annoyed as I bundle Brand in front of me on my horse. We’re still about a day’s ride out from Ivarstead. 

Which means an entire day of nursing my foolish, feverish Dragonborn.

* * *

By the time we make it to Ivarstead, Brand is unconscious and alternates between freezing and burning up. I push the horses hard and get us to town as fast as I can, doing my best to keep Brand warm or cool as he shivers and sweats. I burst into the inn, with the Dragonborn in my arms and walk straight into the largest bedroom without even asking Wilhelm about it. Lucky for me, the bed is empty. Some of Vilemyr Inn’s regulars gasp and jump up as I enter. After all, most of them know Brand pretty well. They step out of my way with “what happened?” and “Is the Dragonborn alright?” but I do not spare them answers as I get Brand settled in bed. 

Wilhelm hovers uncertainly by the door. “Borgakh, this is most unusual,” he begins. 

“I know." I pull the coin purse off my belt and toss it at him. “And we will compensate you for it, but right now I need water, healing potions, alchemical ingredients, and the town’s best alchemist.” 

Wilhelm nods quickly. “Is he injured?” he gestures at Brand. 

“No.” I sigh. “Just stubborn. And sick.” 

Wilhelm nods again and disappears. A few minutes later, Boti and I kneel by Brand’s bed as Boti mixes herbs in a mortar and pestle. The farmer’s wife selects her herbs from a small pile Wilhelm managed to secure, spread out on a scarf on the floor. 

“What happened to him, Borgakh?” Boti asks me. She reaches for another herb and I hand it to her. She does not flinch as our hands touch. Far cry from the first time I was in Ivarstead and she barely looked me in the eye. I guess orcs are unusual here and it took Boti a long time to feel comfortable around me. Perhaps it helps that for once, I do not have my armor and am only wearing a plain tunic and pants. 

“Blood pool,” I say. 

Boti gasps. “Those exist?” 

“Apparently. He got tossed in one while fighting a vampire and swallowed a lot of blood.” 

Boti grimaces. “I thought that the blood pools were just Nordic legend. But that would explain why he seems to have several diseases at once.” 

“Do you think you can cure him?” 

Boti looks up at me with a strange expression on her face, half-smile with a knowing light in her eyes. “Yes, dear. I think so. Being the Dragonborn will help him, I imagine.” She reaches out and lays a hand on my arm for a moment. “So don’t you worry about him.” 

“I’m not worried,” I say gruffly. 

Boti smiles. “Of course not.”

* * *

I walk into Brand’s room two days later, carrying a tray of food to find him sitting up in bed, bright eyed and flushed, but significantly more alert. His fever finally broke last night and though he still looks like death warmed over, the potions Boti got down his throat are finally working. His hand shakes only slightly as he gives me a wave and a lop-sided smile. 

I scowl at him. 

“Why the frown? Aren’t you glad to see me?” 

“Brand.” I put the tray down on the table beside the bed and put my hands on my hips. 

“Oh, I know that look. You’re about to lecture me aren’t you?” 

“You would deserve it, too, after nearly dying on me.” 

“Dying? C'mon, it wasn't that bad. I’m feeling better. We’re out of the woods, right?” 

“Brand, you had at least three different diseases! If you did not still look like a stiff breeze would blow you over, I would punch you in the face.” I say, struggling a little to keep my tone stern. 

Brand gets a spark of challenge in his eyes and spreads his arms. “Take your best shot.” 

I walk over and punch him lightly on the arm before pulling him up into a fierce hug. After a moment of surprise, he returns it (though significantly less fiercely). I sit down on the bed beside him and let him go. He leans back against the headboard again. 

“You do care!” he grins at me. 

“Of course I do. You’re my friend,” I say. 

His grin fades slightly, but there’s mischief in those dark eyes. “Maybe I should get sick more often.” 

“Pull this stunt again, and I really will punch you in the face." 

He coughs into his hand. "Point taken." 

I smile and make sure to put my tusks on full display as I pick up the bowl of stew that Wilhelm provided. “You hungry?” 

Brand smirks. “Why, you want to feed me?” 

“Depends. Are your fingers working yet?” 

Brand looks down at his hands, which are still a little swollen at the joints. “How big’s the spoon?” 

“Well, it is not like it is Ysgrimor’s soup spoon or anything.” 

“I thought that was a fork?” 

I laugh. 

We only spill a little of the stew.


	10. "Not My Orc"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has actually been written for quite some time. As a result, it's a little shorter than some of the recent chapters, but it didn't feel right to tack something on just to make it longer, so here we are ;)

**Brand**

The first time Borgakh goes down, that’s when I know. If anything ever happens to her, I’ll fight hell, high water, Oblivion, Alduin, the Daedric Princes, The Empire, The Stormcloaks, and every Divine in the book to get her back and keep her safe. That’s when I know that paying her dowry was the best thing I’ve ever done. And believe me, I’ve done some pretty amazing things.

As the months go by and Borgakh makes no indication of leaving, we settle into a comfortable routine. Borgakh begins decorating the room under the stairs with orcish relics, bone trinkets and furs. She adds her own treasures to the cabinets in the house. She and Lydia take “girls’ nights out.” Which mostly revolve, I find, around thrashing bandits, hunting, or exploring the wilds. 

The longer we travel together, the more Borgakh and I learn to fight together. We make a great team. I’m fast and quiet and can sling spells and shouts with deadly accuracy. She’s a brick wall with a two hundred pounds of force bearing down behind the swings of her war-hammer. Between the two of us, we decimate just about anything Skyrim throws at us. Especially because Skyrim never expects us. 

Borgakh always has my back and I don't have to worry about her wandering off and getting killed. After all, she’s a freaking orc warrior. Anybody who wants to stand up to her when she’s in a rage has my full sympathy. As she’s fond of saying, she prefers her blood boiling. When she’s in combat, she practically sings. It’s beautiful to watch, really. Like a dance, or a stunning piece of art...that paints everything in blood and howls her rage to the sky. 

So, actually, she’s terrifying. 

And it’s awesome. 

But I learn that even orcs have their limits. 

The cave looks like every other cave we’ve ever been in. Big, gaping, rocky, and dark. Our footsteps echo off the walls as we walk up. The Jarl of Riften wanted us to check out the cave for some rumors of men disappearing in the area, so here we are. Or maybe Temba Wide-Arm wanted us to clear it of bears. Or maybe...I don't remember, but someone asked us to check this out for some reason.

I think. 

Borgakh pulls her helm off and tucks it under one arm, putting her hands on her hips. She scowls at the cave like it personally insulted her mother. I sigh. I know what’s coming.

Like clockwork she announces, “Bears if we’re lucky, trolls if we’re not.”

“Do you have to say that about every cave in Skyrim?” 

She shrugs. “It is true.” 

“Sort of. What about all the caves full of bandits? Or sabercats? Or spiders? Or wolves? Or vampires? Or Falmer? Or --” 

Her glare shuts me up. 

“You’re right. Let’s stick to bears and trolls. Much simpler that way.” 

“You are learning, elf.” Borgakh grins. (Have I mentioned that orc grins are terrifying?) 

“At least I’m teachable,” I mutter as I walk into the cave. 

I swear I hear a chuckle. 

“So why are we in this cave again?” Borgakh asks.

I root around in my pockets and come up with two fistfuls of crumpled letters, bounty notices, and other assorted requests for help that I haven’t gotten around to stuffing in a cabinet at the house somewhere. “Honestly? Can’t remember.” 

She gives me a good long stare. “Perhaps Lydia should keep up with those for you too.” I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Her face is stone-cold. It’s one of the things I envy about Borgakh. She can tell a joke like she’s telling you your favorite aunt just died. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Lydia’s not here. And also, I don’t really think that organizing my letters falls under the duties of a housecarl.” 

“Well, maybe you want me to organize them then?” She holds out a hand. 

“Uh...sure?” I shrug and hand her the bounty notices. 

She stuffs them into her own pocket. That’s not exactly what I’d call organization, but the look she’s giving me makes me think twice about asking her about it. 

“We are already inside, Brand,” she says. “There is no figuring out which one of these we will resolve until we are done.” 

“If you say so.” I shrug. 

She nods once as if the matter is concluded, puts her helm on, and heads deeper into the cave. I pull out my bow and follow.

* * *

“Borgakh!” I grunt under the bony fingers around my throat. Who knew Draugr Death Lords went for choke holds? 

Actually, first of all, who knew there were  _ freaking  _ Draugr Death Lords in a cave?  _ A cave _ ? That ended up being a tomb. Like most dark, damp holes in Skyrim. At this point, I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised. 

“I’m busy, Brand!” Borgakh shouts. Her voice is accompanied by the sound of cracking skulls as she fights several more draugr in the center of the room. 

I get my bow up crosswise across the Death Lord’s throat, but spines are surprisingly resistant to choking. As are the rest of his bones to kicking. The blue light in the draugr’s eyes glows maniacally and his dead groaning almost sounds like cackling as he squeezes harder. My back hits the tomb wall and stone pokes into my shoulder blades. The Death Lord drops his sword to put both hands on my neck. 

_ Since when did draugr get so intelligent? _

They aren’t supposed to be this vindictive! I gasp a breath through the pressure. I need to Shout. But I can’t. Not yet. I feel the cold well in my chest that tells me I don’t have enough energy for a Shout right now. That, and the smoldering ruins of a few of the Death Lord's buddies I just took out with a well-placed fire shout. Maybe that's why he's so mad. But if I don't get this Death Lord off soon, I won't have the breath to Shout either. 

I abandon my bow and grab the Death Lord’s forearms, pulling his hands away from my throat. The pressure slackens a little. By the Divines this skeleton is strong! And tall. In life, he must’ve been near seven feet. By comparison, I look like a child. I drop my feet out from under me, hanging my full weight on his arms, but he doesn’t waver. 

_ Break, dammit! Why in Oblivion are thousand year-old bones this sturdy?  _

I pull my feet up and slam him in the chest. The draugr staggers back with a growl, yanking me off the wall in the process. Our center of gravity shifts and we topple to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. The impact loosens his grip on my throat. I think I hear something break and scatter across the stones. I suck in a welcome breath and roll away, getting myself up into a kneel. I yank my enchanted glass sword from its sheath. 

Just a minute or two and I can Shout again. I can feel the warmth returning to my chest. All I have to do is hold this guy off until then. 

The draugr seems unaffected by the tumble and whatever he lost must not have been important, since he’s already on his feet. He looks around the room for a moment, and then his eyes light on me again and he cackles, a rusty, dry sound that grates on my ears. His eyes glow brighter and he opens his mouth, a glow forming behind his skeletal teeth. 

“Oh, not again!” I yell as I try to scramble out of the way. It is decidedly  _ unfair _ that these piles of bones can still Shout. 

The draugr rears back and Shouts - “Fus Roh Dah!” 

I get hit in the chest with an invisible force that throws me off my feet and into the nearest wall. Already short of breath, the impact winds me and I fall to the ground, gasping. My sword skitters out of reach. 

I swear the draugr laughs as he advances. I don’t have the breath to stand up. Or Shout. I try to sit up, but I can’t seem to get my limbs to cooperate. My head swims and I gasp again, trying desperately to heave a breath into my chest. 

“Borgakh.” I barely manage a groan. 

I see her in my peripheral, still tangling with a few draugr, although there’s a pile of them at her feet. Miraculously, my voice breaks through the haze of battle and she whips around to see the Death Lord picking up a discarded Ancient Blade off the floor. With a shout of rage, Borgakh instantly changes targets. She’s across the room in two bounds, her warhammer arched back for a deadly swing. 

The Death Lord never sees her coming. 

Her warhammer completes its arc at the side of the draugr Death Lord’s skull. It explodes in a brilliant burst of bone shards and the light in his eyes blinks out like tiny dying stars. The rest of his body sags forward as the magic keeping his bones together dissipates and he collapses into a pile in the floor. 

“Are you alright?” Borgakh looks down at me. I can’t see her eyes through the slits of her helm, but she sounds...worried. 

I cough as I struggle upright. “Yeah. Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “I’m fine.” My voice sounds hoarse as my throat protests. “Thanks for that.” 

Borgakh holds out a hand to haul me to my feet. I reach up to take it. As I do, I catch a glimpse of another draugr sneaking up behind Borgakh, his palm glowing with a primed spell. 

“Borgakh, look out!” 

She spins -- too late! -- right as the draugr unleashes an ice spike. It catches Borgakh in the chest, piercing her armor and crushing the steel plate. Borgakh grunts and falls to her knees, the ice spike sticking out of her chest at the joint between her armor plates. 

“No!” I yell. 

The draugr (and another behind him) advance with swords raised. Borgakh tries to lift her warhammer, but she falls forward onto her hands instead. 

I feel anger burn in my chest, hot and sharp, along with that second warmth, the power of the Thu’um. I’m ready now. 

I stand and face the draugr. 

“Yol Toor Shul!”

A wall of fire leaves my mouth and spreads across the draugr, taking them both by surprise. They go up in flames at the same time my sword cleaves the first draugr’s head from his shoulders. The lights in his eyes go out and he crumbles. The second draugr never stands a chance. 

He doesn’t even get his axe up before I’ve got a glass blade up between his ribs. I yank down with all my weight. My sword, a lever in his chest, splits him apart and his ribcage shatters into an impressive amount of bone shards. Between me and the fire, the draugr are nothing but weapons and ashes on the floor. The flames lick out over the tomb walls and die as they encounter only stone walls and pottery. 

But I’m not watching the fire anymore. I’m on my knees beside Borgakh, my sword forgotten on the floor. Her breath rasps in her throat in a funny way. While the actual ice spike has disappeared, I can see the result of its damage. Her chest plate is crushed in and blood drips from a rent in the armor. She is half-fallen on her side now, holding herself propped up on one elbow. 

“Borgakh, speak to me,” I say. 

“It is nothing,” she grunts. But it takes her effort to speak. 

I reach into my satchel for a healing potion and hiss when my fingers find broken glass instead. I pull my hand out, fingers bloody, and curse. My potion bottles were shattered when I hit the wall. 

Borgakh laughs, despite her mortal wound. I'm no healer, but even I can see that this will be the death of her if I don't mend it fast. “Orcs don’t...need potions...little elf,” she says. The words come with great effort now. She falls and I just barely manage to catch her and cradle her in my lap. Her eyes are closed, her breathing so shallow that I can hardly tell she’s breathing at all. 

“Neither do elves,” I say. I reach out and touch her chest, a healing spell primed in my palm. 

The warm glow of Heal Other flows from my fingers and washes over Borgakh. I realize I’ve never actually used a healing spell on Borgakh before. Nor have I ever seen her use any sort of healing agent on herself either. In our travels together, she’s only ever received a few minor injuries and she usually bandages them and leaves them to heal on their own. I, on the other hand, have used healing spells for everything from papercuts to broken bones. Wood elves have no such qualms about hastening the healing process through magic. 

The color begins to return to Borgakh’s face and her breath comes easier as my healing magic washes over her chest. I see the blood dry up and disappear and her chest takes its normal shape again, even if her armor is still dented. I work at the straps of her chest plate until I can pry the damaged pieces off. Borgakh breathes easier. 

Her eyes flutter open and she focuses on me again, her brow furrowed. 

“Healing magic?” She sounds a little disgusted. “An orc lets her wounds heal naturally.” 

I look down at her with a smile, knowing she’ll be alright now, and shake my head. “Not my orc.” 

There’s something surprised in Borgakh’s gaze then. Her eyes go wide and I swear that maybe, just maybe there’s a tear there in the corner of her eye. 

“What did you just call me?” 

“Mine.” I smile. 

She blinks.

“Unless--" 

She reaches up and lays a finger on my lips. 

Borgakh sits up as the spell finishes its work and the glow in my palm fades. We’re eye to eye...sort of. Even sitting down, I still have to look up to her. Her movements are slow, deliberate, careful almost, as she reaches out and takes my hand in hers. 

“Brand.” When she meets my eye I’ve never seen her more serious and more happy at the same time. “There’s no one else in all of Skyrim I’d rather belong to.” 

Then she looks at me slyly. 

“Little elf.” 

“Giant orc," I counter.

She throws back her head and laughs as we sit surrounded by the bones of our defeated foes. 


	11. "I'm Buying You A Dress"

**Borgakh**

We are in Solitude, running an errand for Falk Firebeard (about the only person with any sense in Jarl Elisif’s court) when Brand suddenly spins around in front of me and starts walking backwards. 

I sigh. 

“Oh, c’mon,” he protests. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet!” 

“You are about to suggest that we do something other than report back to Falk about what we found in Wolfskull Cave.” 

He grins at me. Brand never blushes. Only grins. “You got me,” he admits. “Although, to be fair, I was going to suggest that we do something other than report to Falk  _ after _ we report to Falk.” 

I roll that sentence around in my head a few times. Why are elves so wordy? We orcs say everything plainly. I have been told I am blunt, but no one ever questions what I want. Brand twists words into pretty knots and ties them into bows. It takes some getting used to.

“So then, what are you suggesting?” I ask. 

“Oh, nothing.” He shrugs. “After all, we’ve got to report to Falk first. Right?” 

I sigh again. But I will be glad to get rid of this Ritual Master I’m carrying. He has not said much since I bonked him on the head on the way back to shut him up. Brand worried I killed him, but I can feel him breathe where he lays across my shoulder. I do not see why we didn’t just kill the man in the first place, but Brand wanted to bring him back to Solitude. For justice, he said. I think it is because he has a flair for the dramatic and walking back into Elisif’s court while announcing you stopped a necromantic ritual and tossing said necromancer on the floor at the Jarl’s feet is more dramatic than returning to report that everyone is dead.

And that’s exactly what Brand does. He marches straight into the Blue Palace (the guards don’t even try to stop us anymore), right into Elisif’s court (who are in a heated discussion about the palace drapery) and announces the second death of Queen Potema Septim of Skyrim (at which, I toss the tied, gagged, and unconscious necromancer at the Jarl’s feet). I have to admit, the silence we impose on the court is impressive. 

Brand stands there with his hands out, grinning broadly, as if expecting applause. What he gets is a very quiet and startled “Oh!” from Jarl Elisif. 

Falk steps up with a resigned sort of patience. “Who is this, Dragonborn?”

“This, my good man, is the Ritual Master from Wolfskull Cave who was attempting to summon your distinguished Queen Potema from the grave. And if the history books I’ve found in your moldy old tombs are accurate, I figure Potema isn’t somebody you’re too keen on seeing again. So, Borgakh and I took the liberty of stopping the ritual.” 

“Then Wolfskull cave is clear?” Elisif asks. 

“Yes, Jarl.” Brand gives her a little nod of his head, a short bow. Despite his tomfoolery, he respects Elisif, even though she’s inexperienced. Honestly, I think he feels sorry for her. And I understand somewhat. She has lost her husband, and for humans, who don’t always arrange that sort of thing, it is more devastating than for orcs. Humans mourn their losses more than we do. 

“By the Nine,” Falk mutters under his breath. “So Varnius was right for once.” 

“Seems so.” Brand puts his hands on his hips. “He had a whole posse in there with him. They tried to kill us for interrupting, of course, but it’s kind of hard to stop a rampaging Orc.” 

Everyone’s eyes flick to me. I used to find it strange, but I have realized that traveling with the Dragonborn means eyes are often on me. I don’t pay it any attention anymore. Most people are stunned by the orc warrior following the elven Dragonborn, especially since Brand got me an Ebony chest plate and helm. (From a tomb, of course, which I am also getting used to. Half the stuff we own comes from tombs.) 

Falk clears his throat. “Guards! Take this mage to the dungeon. Let me know when he wakes up. We will arrange for his trial before the court. Do you wish to be present, Dragonborn?”

Brand shrugged. “Nah. I trust the court's judgement. Besides, I’ve got another errand to attend to. You know how it is.” 

Falk sort of shrugs, as if he does not know ‘how it is.’ But, like most humans, he does not say what he thinks and he simply nods his head. “Of course, Dragonborn.” 

Brand grins again and waves at the court. “Good day to the Jarl’s court!” he calls out cheerily. 

Erikur rolls his eyes and most of the Jarl’s court simply ignores Brand. Although Brand doesn’t react, I give Erikur a warning glare. He looks away quickly and stuffs a piece of bread in his mouth. 

“Good day, Falk. Jarl.” Brand bows to Elisif. 

She smiles at him. “Good day, Brand,” she says. She’s one of the few who uses his name and not one of his many titles when she addresses him. I think it is one of the reasons Brand likes her. 

And then Brand spins on his heel and heads out of the court. I follow him out. 

“They are a cheery bunch, aren’t they?” I ask as we leave the Blue Palace. 

“Is that a joke, I hear, Borgakh?” 

I am glad that my Ebony helm hides my smile. “Perhaps.” I find that my penchant for jokes has grown significantly around Brand. 

“They’re better than the court in Markarth, at least.” Brand shrugs. 

I do not answer, but I agree. “Now, what do you want us to do?” 

“Oh, don’t sound so depressed,” Brand chides me. “I thought that today, I would take you shopping!” 

I stop. Brand nearly runs into me. 

“Shopping.” 

Brand steps around me so that he’s in front of me and I am forced to look him in the eye or obviously ignore him. 

“Yeah. For something for you to wear other than armor.” 

“Why would I need something to wear other than armor?” 

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Something he usually does when I ask a “stupid” question. 

“Do baby orcs wear metal diapers?” he asks. 

“Huh?” I’m caught completely off-guard by the question. 

“Baby orcs,” he starts again. “Do they --” 

“Of course not!” 

“And your wise-women. They usually wear mages’ robes, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“So then how come I only ever see you wearing armor?” 

“Because I am a warrior.” 

“So am I, but you see me in plain clothes when I’m at home, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“See?” 

I cross my arms. “No.” 

He throws his hands up. “You’re impossible. C’mon. I’m buying you a dress.” 

He grabs my hand and marches me up the main street of Solitude. I let him. If I really wanted to resist, all I’d have to do is plant my feet and refuse to move. He is strong, but dragging a 200lb orc and all of her armor and gear up the street is a feat, even for the Dragonborn. 

We stop outside Radiant Raiment. I smirk. We have had a run in with the bossy shopkeep, Taarie, before. She asked Brand to wear an outfit to the Blue Palace. He...did. Although he probably did not present it anything like what Taarie imagined. Jarl Elisif did still place an order with the shop, but that does not seem to stop Taarie or her sister from insulting our clothes. 

“Here? Really?” I ask. 

“Well, they are the only clothing store in all of Skyrim.” Brand shrugs. 

“A dress?” I needle him. But I am very curious. 

He sighs. “Look if it bothers you that much, I’ll buy you trousers. As long as it’s not armor.” 

“Anything but armor?” I ask. 

He gives me a long look out of the corner of his eyes, then he nods once, slow. “Anything but armor,” he agrees. 

Under my Ebony helm, I smile. “Alright, Dragonborn. Buy me a dress.” 

He shakes his head and pushes open the door. 

Inside, Taarie waits behind the counter, while her sister, Endarie sits in a chair by the front door. I've never been properly introduced to Endarie, but then again, I don't spend time in Radiant Raiment. I have no interest in clothes and frippery. Brand once bought an enchanted necklace here, but he usually complains about the prices, the service, and the insults and gives the store a wide berth. Which is why I’m surprised we’re here now. But I guess he’s right. This  _ is  _ the only clothing store in Skyrim. 

“What can we do for you, Dragonborn?” Taarie asks. 

“Get you decent clothes, I hope,” Endarie mutters. 

Taarie gives her a glare. 

Endarie shrugs. 

“Actually, yes,” Brand says. “For once I voluntarily want to buy something from your shop.” 

Endarie jumps up with a light in her eyes. “I have just the thing, Dragonborn." She runs over to a nearby wardrobe. 

“Oh, it’s not for me.” 

Endarie stops. 

Taarie looks confused. 

“You see, Borgakh needs a dress.” Brand drops the sentence like it is a pot of fire on a room full of oil. 

I hold back a snicker at the elves’ faces. Both sisters stare at me. I cross my arms and look bored, which is very easy to do when your face is covered by a helm. 

Taarie finally breaks the silence. “A dress.” 

“That is what he said,” I answer. 

"Why would an orc need a dress?" Endarie sneers. 

"I don't know," I answer. " I asked Brand the same thing." 

Brand rolls his eyes.

Endarie's lip curls. 

Brand’s eyes flash. “Because she’s my orc and I want her in the finest dress from here to Riften. Is there a problem with that, elf?” 

I swear the growl in his tone is a near-perfect imitation of an angry orc warrior. Endarie looks suitably chastised, even if the corner of her mouth is still quirked in a sneer. 

"No, Dragonborn. No problem at all."

“Good. Because I really wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of an angry Borgakh. Now, I’ll wait here. Ladies, work your magic.”

* * *

True to his word, Brand waits outside of the dressing room while Endarie and Taarie help me choose a dress. Or rather, Taarie helps and Endarie grumbles until Taarie kicks her out of the room. 

I chuckle as the angry high-elf stomps out of the room. Elves are such fickle creatures. Although Taarie is as quick to insult an outfit as her sister, she, at least, seems to have a little more tolerance for dealing with people. 

“Now, let’s see what we can do without that killjoy in here,” Taarie says as she shuts the door firmly behind Endarie. “Are we really going for a dress?"

I pause in taking off my armor. Brand said I could get anything that wasn’t armor. For a moment, I consider toying with him and buying something ridiculous, like a set of mourner’s clothes, or a blacksmith’s apron. But then I nod. “Yes,” I say. “A dress.” 

About half an hour later, Taarie stands behind me at the mirror looking pleased with herself. She chose a deep red ensemble for me that hugs all of my curves and accentuates the war paint on my face. The dress sweeps the floor, only allowing glimpses of the gold slippers I’m wearing. The front of the dress dips low, but still tasteful, and is also trimmed in gold, as are the flowing sleeves. A thin gold chain accentuates my waist. For a long time, I do not know what to say. I have never dressed to impress anyone. I have always dressed for practicality. For war. For battle. Never for...for whatever this is.

But I like it. 

“You know, I’ve always kind of wanted to dress an orc,” Taarie says like she’s admitting some sort of deep secret. 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“You Orsimer are always so practical, you know. Always running around in armor and fur and such. I’ve always wanted to see if I could clean you up.” 

I decide to ignore her veiled insult. 

She is not entirely wrong. 

And I do clean up well. 

“Shall we show the Dragonborn?” Taarie asks, with a little smile on her lips. 

“Yes. I think we shall,” I say. 

When Taarie opens the door, Endarie is nowhere to be found. Taarie tells me to wait a moment and gets Brand to stand against the far wall and close his eyes. I watch through a crack in the door as he complies with a sort of mystified grin on his face. Taarie waves a hand in front of his face (I have never understood that as a test of whether or not one’s eyes are closed) and seems to satisfy herself that Brand isn’t peeking. Then she motions for me to come into the room. 

I walk out and stand in front of Brand. 

“Ok, you can open your eyes,” Taarie instructs. 

Brand opens his eyes. 

And he doesn’t say anything. 

I see him take me in - no, drink me in. His mouth is half open, one side quirked up in a grin, his eyes alight with a fire I have not seen in him yet. He sweeps me from head to foot a few times, then puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. It is not a disapproving shake -- more a shake of wonder or amazement. 

“Say something,” I say. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes. And that crooked grin lights up the room.


End file.
